


Vivisection

by hahaharley



Series: pastimes [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Gen, Hurt, Psychological Horror, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suspense, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:39:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hahaharley/pseuds/hahaharley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma is part of a group of hostages taken by clowns after a bank robbery goes sour. When she makes the mistake of drawing their boss's attention, she is understandably afraid for her life— but sometimes, the immediate kill isn't the most entertaining result. Sometimes, the Joker first prefers to open things up and jab at their insides to see how they work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Security

_I'll laugh until my head comes off,_  
_I swallow till I burst—until I burst._  
_- **Radiohead, Idioteque ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7hvGPLexL0))  
**_

Before this very moment, I've never known how painful my own heartbeat could be. Right now, it's pounding so fast it feels like it's about to burst out through my chest, and it actually _hurts._ This combined with the fact that my stomach currently feels like someone ripped it out, tied knots in it, and shoved it back in makes things very uncomfortable for me.

_Wasn't our fault. Wasn't our fault. Why the hell did they decide to blame us?_

I've always had a fear of clowns. I don't know; I guess it was that face paint that got to me. It's not natural for something to be so _happy_ all the time. The one exception to the rule was Tim Curry in _It._ I know, right? The most notorious "scary clown" movie ever, and I wasn't scared of it because the main character was an actor that I would always associate with Long John Silver of Muppet Treasure Island and then, later in my life, Dr. Frank-n-Furter of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

These clowns are more terrifying than most. I actually have a reason to be scared of them.

_It's so cold._

I just picked the wrong day to go to the bank. Like most people nowadays, I try to avoid actually going _into_ the bank—the drive-throughs at the little branches around the city and the ATMs usually took care of it for me. But I'd recently misplaced my debit card and wanted to get a new one sent out to me. I suppose I could have done it on the internet—should have—but the building was on my way to school. So I stopped.

Now I'm in the back of a van, blindfolded and terrified, listening to the harsh breathing and whimpers of the other hostages.

Memory blurs when I try to pin down exactly what happened in that bank. The clowns burst in, there was a lot of screaming… I remember looking for _him_ among them, their leader, the man the media definitively dubbed the Joker—a man that the citizens of Gotham are terrified of nowadays.

I guess he was busy—he's probably moved on from bank robbery, too much of a big shot to trouble with the dirty work anymore. He still needs funds, though, right? So his people get to steal to their hearts' content. It's just my luck that they picked my bank on the one day I needed to visit it.

There was a gunshot, though. More screaming. And the clowns were suddenly pissed. Just like that, they gunned down half of the hostages. They warned us to shut up or we'd be next. It was a powerful threat, what with a dozen dead bodies backing it up. We shut up.

While laying flat on the ground amidst other the hostages, my adrenaline-pumped mind was able to somewhat process what had happened. One of the hostages—maybe a bank employee, it wasn't clear—had a gun. They'd killed one of the clowns. I couldn't see the body, but I heard the whispers around me and put two and two together.

Too soon, they were done in the vaults. Still no sign of the cops—I had no idea what was taking so long, or if they'd even been called. They killed half of the surviving hostages. I didn't focus on the bodies—I couldn't, not if I wanted to stay calm and stay alive. I was one of the lucky ones. There were only six of us left—a mother with her little girl, an old man, and two other people my age, clinging tightly to one another. And then there was me.

The smell of the blood and shit and vomit (and there was plenty of each) was burning in my nose. There were bloodstains on my jeans and on the brown suede jacket that I'd wanted so much and now just wanted to burn. Everywhere I looked there were bodies. And I stayed calm.

I tend to do this in the face of a crisis. I don't cry, don't scream. I look around, I take note of whatever I can, and I scheme to get out of the current mess. I was a little surprised this habit apparently carried over to _such_ a crisis, but even so, despite the severity of the situation, I couldn't let myself lose it. Half the hostages were having quiet freakouts already, and it didn't seem to be doing them much good. The survival instinct was kicking in—I had to do whatever I could to get out, and I figured not getting on the clowns' nerves by sniveling and crying was the best way to start.

Blindfolds were produced. We were hustled into a van— _where are the police?!_ —and crammed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the back.

Now we're driving.

Any attempt to speak is silenced harshly by our guard—one of any number of clowns that could be back here, but then, it could just be him. If it _is_ just him, if I ripped off the blindfold and attacked, could I overpower him?

I catch myself and smother the thought. It's crazy, exactly the sort of desperate, reckless shit someone who's been through a traumatic experience might come up with. I'm stronger than that. If I play along, I might live through this.

 _But chances are I won't,_ I think before I can quite stop myself. _These are the Joker's men, after all. He isn't known for his mercy. Odds are that I'll have to play some sick game and_ _ **then**_ _I'll die._

Really positive thinking, there, totally encouraging. I need to think about something else.

_I'm freezing. Why the hell don't they have heat back here? They're human too, aren't they?_

I have my coat. My hands are ice cold, though, as well as my nose, my mouth, and all my extremities. I can barely feel my chill is getting physically painful. _I need to get out of here. Why didn't I hide under the bodies?_

On a normal day, the thought would have repulsed me, but today's not a normal day. Today, adrenaline is pumping through my system and thoughts are flying through my skull in rapid progression, some of which seem more than a little sociopathic.

It's something I've always hated about myself, to the point that I tend to overcompensate for it. When I'm not in the midst of a crisis, I try to be entirely selfless, to take care of everyone. Maybe it makes up for the fact that I immediately begin calculating and conniving when I'm in trouble. I can still muster up some form of sympathy for children when I'm in trouble, or animals, things that can't defend themselves without some kind of help, but as far as other people go, it's a dog-eat-dog world and I am not above being grateful when they get the shit instead of me.

Children, though…

I'm worried right now. The kid isn't making any noise at all. She's not even crying. She's too young to know that being quiet might keep her alive longer; she can't be more than four or five years old. If she's in shock, she needs to go to a hospital.

The van lurches to a stop, sending us tumbling to the floor of the van. Someone falls into me. The clown in the back with us swears and the blackness behind my blindfold lightens a bit as the van door opens.

We're muscled out of the vehicle. I want to walk carefully, because I don't think whoever has me by the arm is going to be very careful guiding me through doorways and such, but I'm getting jerked forward violently and insistently, so I just stagger along as quickly as I can. Hopefully my prompt obedience will help.

My heart is racing. My stomach keeps twisting, making me feel even sicker, and I'm freezing cold. It feels like we're going inside, but you wouldn't guess it from the temperature. Suddenly, I'm released. My blindfold is ripped off. We're in a dim, cold room that looks like it might have once been a conference room in a storage building or a warehouse or something. My hands are free, but I'm not about to try anything. They still have their guns.

There's a fire burning in an oil drum in the center of the room, the only source of heat, from what I can tell, greasy fumes of smoke drifting up from it in wisps to escape through the cracked windows lining the top of the walls. A few of our captors are warming themselves next to it; the rest of them are watching us. I look around. The other hostages look about as lost as I am. None of us seem to know what's expected of us at this point.

I venture to sit cautiously on the floor, wanting to see if I'll get yelled at. One of the clowns sneers in acknowledgement, but he doesn't do or say anything. One by one, the rest of my fellow captives follow suit.

Time crawls by. The clowns fight in hisses amongst themselves—probably about what to do with us, judging by the fact that they're bothering to whisper. I suppose I should feel encouraged that they're even fighting—means we've got someone who thinks they should keep us alive, for whatever reason. After a while, I turn to look at the little girl. She's shivering, and her mother is trying to keep her warm, but her hands are turning blue. As selfish as I want to be, as selfish as I _would_ be if she were even just a few years older, I can't help but feel a twinge of conscience. She's _so_ young.

Slowly, carefully, I get up. One of the clowns watches me warily as I walk over to the mother and child, stripping my coat as I go. Underneath I'm only wearing a thin, long-sleeved green shirt—I'd picked it out so carefully this morning because it went with my eyes and set off my red hair, and I had my eye on the new teacher's aide. Thinking about it now, I feel a pulse of loathing for my past self. _You couldn't have picked anything warmer, could you?_

I briefly, privately mourn the loss of my coat, but I've decided to move past it by the time I reach the little girl, and I tuck it carefully around her. Her mother gives me a wide-eyed look of fear. "What's happening?" she whispers. They're the first real words I've heard in hours, and I can only shake my head. I don't know.

I'm starting to feel the cold again, and the chill seems to go twice as deep this time—I'd gone a little bit numb, sitting there and not moving, but getting up apparently got my blood flowing again and my body's decided to remind me how miserable it is. My teeth start clicking together convulsively. Before I can move back to my spot and try to settle down to hope for that comfortable numbness again, though, the door bursts open. Two more clowns walk in. And then—him.

I can see him better now than I've ever been able to on GCN. Usually we get blurry, scattered shots of him, shaky video… not enough to really _see_.

I'm seeing him now.

Honestly, I could probably look at him for hours, from the hair (which may have been plain brown one crappy dye job and eight missed washes ago) to the shoes (brown dress shoes, perfectly functional but maybe a little old, no shine to them). It's similar to my old fascination with serial killers—this person is responsible for some of the worst crimes committed in Gotham City in the past year. How could he possibly be _human? Is_ he human? What would it be like to sit down and have an actual conversation with him, _just_ him?

 _No, Emma, don't even_ _**think** _ _that; take it back right now. Now. You don't_ _**want** _ _a conversation with him. He will kill you, or worse, given the slightest provocation—or, considering who this is, no provocation at all. Don't attract attention. Do not…_

But I can't seem to stop staring. His makeup is smeared, running in places, probably last touched up over twenty-four hours ago. Beneath his eyes, the black's coming off. His skin looks purple underneath. I can't tell if it's from injury or lack of sleep. Probably both. His eyes are drooping a little bit and his movements are jerky, but maybe he's always like this—I wouldn't know.

"Well, _well,_ " he drawls, striding in and not even glancing over at us, as if coming home to find a group of hostages huddling in the corner is a perfectly normal occurrence (and let's face it—for _him_ , it probably is). "How'd it go?"

One of the clown speaks up, a tattletale's whine in his voice. "They shot Lou."

"They shot _Lou?_ " demands the Joker, his tone incredulous. I'm not sure, but it sounds like he's mocking his henchman.

"Yeah, they shot Lou," the clown repeats, seeming a little unsure.

The Joker produces a weapon out of nowhere, some sort of automatic handgun—I've never spent time around guns, so I can't identify it, but it doesn't matter, it's scary regardless of what _kind_ it is. His tongue darts out, snakelike, as the barrel of the gun swings around towards us. "So these bastards pulled the _trigger_ on Lou, huh? Should we… get rid of 'em?"

"What?" The clown looks confused. "No—no, boss, it wasn't them. They're just hostages; they're just here 'cause we were waitin' to see what you wanted us to do with 'em."

"What I want you to do with 'em?" repeats the Joker, deadpan, holding completely still, then he halfway lowers the gun. "They're _hostages._ Play with 'em. Kill 'em. _I_ don't care whatchya do."

The gun swings back up. He compresses the trigger and bullets fly. "It's as easy as _that._ "

My hands clutch at my middle automatically for a split second before I realize I didn't get hit, and then I turn to see who did. It's the old man. He slumps over, blood staining his shirt. The little girl starts crying, finally.

His head whips around. He sees us, really _sees_ us, for the first time. For a moment, a terrifying millisecond, his eyes rest on me, but even as I freeze beneath them, they slide sideways to the girl instead.

"Aw, whassamatter?" he asks, shoving the gun into his henchman's chest and then striding over to us. The mother screams as he tears the little girl from her arms.

"Don't _cry!_ " he says, throwing her up into the air and catching her again. "Have _fun!_ " He repeats the process, sucks in a breath and then lets out a shrill cry: " _Wheeee_!"

I feel the foolish urge to burst into hysterical laughter. There is something absolutely sick about this, and I can't help myself. I reach out. His faded blue sleeve is rolled up to the elbow, and before I know it, my fingers have closed around his bared forearm.

He turns, apparently completely forgetting that he's just hurled the girl even higher into the air and she's on her way back down. I flinch, but the mother manages to catch her daughter just before she has an untimely meeting with the concrete floor.

He stares at me, expressionless, licks his lips, and then, very quietly, he asks, "Yes?"

This was a very bad idea. Scratch that—this ranks among one of the _worst_ ideas I've ever had, but there's no going back now. _So much for flying under the radar._ I clear my throat, and softly, I ask, "What… what do you want with us?"

"Me?" His face splits into a wide, incredulous grin. "Me?" He gestures to himself. " _I_ don't want _anything_ with ya! I didn't bring you here, did I? No, no, your fate is up to… _these_ —" and he swings his hand around to gesture at the clowns—"gentlemen."

Great.

Although his lips are closed, I can see movement through his cheeks, his tongue probing at the insides of his cheeks, the other sides of his scars. The realization makes me vaguely sick. He's staring at me, contemplating something. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but I'm too scared to ask.

He abruptly turns away. He strides off, stopping only for a second to mutter something to a clown. I hear the words _"that one,_ " spoken a little louder than the rest, and, just so there can be no confusion, he turns and points at me. He sees me staring and flashes a quick grin at me. I want to glare defiantly at him, but my blood's running cold at this new development and I'm sure I just look stricken (and anyway, defiance isn't a good way to go if you want to survive).

Then, he just leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him. There's a collective relaxation, as if everyone's catching their breath now that he's gone.

Clowns suddenly hurry past me. Before I can do much more than blink, they've grabbed the other hostages and removed them from the room, hustling them through the door into a larger room beyond. Two other clowns get the body of the old man, one grabbing the wrists, one grabbing the feet. Once the flurry of activity is over, there's only one clown left in the room with me. He's holding a gun in plain view, an unspoken warning against foolishness, so I don't think it's wise to try to escape, despite the feeling that something horrible is imminent creeping up my spine.

"What's going on?" I ask flatly, almost forgetting that I should be afraid of him. Turns out, once you've faced the living terror that is the Joker, his lackeys lose a little bit of their shine.

The clown grunts. "Boss wants it."

My heart skips a beat again, and just when I'd thought that it might settle down a little bit. " _It_?"

"This," he growls, waving a hand around. "Everything here is according to his plan. All of it is always, _always_ according to plan, no matter how smart you think you are, so let me give you some advice, lady—cooperate. Don't try to outsmart him. You ain't got shit on whatever's happening inside that skull of his."

Well, I hadn't planned on trying to outsmart him. Then again, I also haven't been planning to see him ever again, but apparently, that's far too much to hope for. _As if you_ _ **really**_ _had hope to begin with._ "What is going on?"

He sighs. I can see his internal struggle playing out over his face—does he want to indulge me and therefore commit the probably-mortal sin of acknowledging me as a human being, or does he want to threaten and growl and look tough and continue to be _bored_ until whatever's about to happen happens? "He doesn't sleep," he says finally. "I dunno if he can't or just _doesn't_. Lives on coffee for about six days and then finally crashes hard around the seventh. When he _does_ sleep, he tends to do it best with some kind of a… security blanket."

"Security blanket," I repeat flatly.

He doesn't answer me, because the two guys who carried out the body are coming back in and he apparently has to re-establish his credibility as number one mute, macho henchman, so he just grunts and turns away from me.

 _It's cold._ I rub my arms, trying to coax some warmth back into them. Minutes crawl past.

Finally another clown comes in and points at me. "You. Come with me. No funny business."

I want to mutter rebelliously under my breath, something about how hypocritical it is, _no funny business_ coming from a fucking _clown_. Want to, but don't. I imagine the survival rate for hostages tends to drop drastically with each new smartass comment. It'll be better for everyone if I keep them to myself. He makes me walk in front, which doesn't really reassure me, but what choice do I have? We walk down one or two dark hallways, and then he points with his gun to a closed door on the left.

"Knock first."

I stare at him, and then I knock.

There's a second of silence, then that silky, dangerous voice oozes through the door—"Come in."

I carefully push the door open and, knowing that I'm probably walking to my own doom, I step inside.

 _Shitty digs for a rich criminal,_ is my first thought. It's worn-down, cold, no furniture but an unoccupied desk and a cracked mirror on the wall. The only thing that makes me think anyone could possibly live in this space (or sleep here, at least) is the bundle of blankets shoved into a corner.

In another corner there are scattered notebooks, newspapers, and pictures. Batman. His obsession. Everyone in Gotham knows about it since he showed up last year and started tormenting Batman, using the news networks to pull a reluctant Gotham into the game. Only now, Batman has vanished, which apparently means the Joker's got time to burn screwing around with hostages.

The Joker's standing at the mirror, loosening his tie. He's no longer wearing the purple gloves he had on earlier, and he glances at me. "Shut the door, come in." I don't move, and he chuckles at his reflection. "Don't stand there like a lamb being led to the _slaughter._ Come in!"

Slowly, warily, I shut the door. He gets the tie off and tosses it into a corner, and then prowls in my direction.

He stops a foot away from me. "You look _terrified,_ " he says. There's a hint of glee in his voice—not overt, but it's there. "Why?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before he starts to circle me, like some predatory animal. I don't like this—not at all. He's behind me now, out of my field of vision, and I'm too scared to turn my head to keep him in my line of sight.

Fortunately, in seconds, he loops back around in front of me. I take advantage of the opportunity and move backwards, quickly, until my back is against the door. Immediately after I move, I regret it. Before, with open air behind me, I had the illusion of some sort of freedom. Now, with the door pressing into my back, I'm trapped. I know it.

He cocks his head at me, another move that brings to mind an animal more than a human being. His hands are clasped behind his back and he stills for a second. Then, in one fluid, sudden movement, he lunges at me. "BOO!"

I'm half-expecting it, but it still startles me, triggering all kinds of survival instincts. I let out a yelp and bring my hands up in front of my face, hopelessly trying to ward him off. It doesn't work.

He bursts into laughter, hysterical, hyena-like, and grabs me by the wrists. With a quick jerk, he pulls me off-balance, forcing me forward into his chest, and then he locks his arms behind me to hold me there.

"Dance with me," he says as he sways back and forth.

 _Oh,_ _**fuck that.** _

My arms are trapped between our bodies. I manage to free up my hands a little bit and I wedge them between our chests, and then try to shove him away, but I can feel the strength in his arms and body, and I'm not exactly a UFC champion. My resistance doesn't get me anywhere, and it's also hard to fight someone who's almost a foot taller than yourself (and accordingly, has more arm with which to keep you imprisoned).

He frees up a hand and grabs my hair, jerking my head back painfully and angling it so that I'm looking straight up at his downturned face. "You know what's wrong with _you_?" he asks, keeping his arm around me tight. "You've lost sight of what's _fun_ in life. You need to _loosen up_ a little, Em."

He tugs on my hair, but suddenly, I'm incapable of feeling the pain. _What… what did he call me?_

He notices that I've frozen, and he grins. "You don't mind if I call you Em, do you? Ya look like an Em." After a few seconds pass, I realize that he's waiting for an answer, and I just barely manage to shake my head. "Ahh, good."

He continues on with his bizarre dance, and I finally give in. _Cooperation is the best way to survive_ , I remind myself. I move with him—nothing complicated, just a drunken sort of sway, back and forth… back and forth. He lets go of my hair and grabs my left hand instead, stretching it out with his, and the other hand loosens a little on my back.

After a second, I blurt, "Are you going to rape me?" Immediately, I'm horrified that the fear at the forefront of my mind managed to get past my mouth so easily. If he _hadn't_ been thinking it, he is _now_ —but I couldn't help it. I want to know what's in store for me, if I should even bother hoping.

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, harsh enough to hurt my ears, and then catches himself, angling his head down to look at me. "Uh… why, do you think I _should?_ " he asks, seeming to make an effort to sound serious. "I mean, it's not part of the _plan,_ but I could make an exception if you think it's a good idea."

I can't shake my head fast or hard enough. He peers down at me, pulling an utterly fabricated wounded face. "You sure? Cause, ah… believe it or not, Em, there are girls _lining up_ for a shot at _this_ handsome mug."

 _I don't care_ _ **who's**_ _lining up, I do not want any part of that,_ I think. The matted hair, the lurid colors of his face paint and clothing, the yellowed teeth, the fact that his very presence indicates a threat to my life and safety—I'm repulsed by him, and if he's giving me a choice, I'm choosing the option that _doesn't_ include sexual assault. However, I'm not convinced it'll be that easy. Seeing as I didn't get hurt last time I dared to ask a question, I try again: "If… _that's_ not your plan, then why do you have me here?" Maybe it's a stupid question. Maybe I'm reminding him that I'm supposed to be dead already, but I'm tired of this, the stalling, the _dancing_. As horrifying as the answer may be, I want to know: will I be alive or dead when this is over?

He sighs. We're still swaying back and forth, feet scuffing along the floor as we move in a distracted circle. "Ya need to _relax_ ," he says authoritatively. "I mean, look at _me._ I have _responsibilities,_ you know? Things could get _so… stressful_ if I let 'em. But you never see _me_ frowning! Surely your life can't be _that_ bad."

_I dunno, man. It's looking pretty bad from my point of view._

The next question pops out of my mouth the moment it forms in my brain. "Why do you do what you do?" I'm immediately mortified by my lack of control in a situation where control is very important, but when I open my mouth to take it back, to tell him _never mind,_ I find that I can't make myself speak the words. Despite everything, I really am morbidly curious about this man, one of arguably the two most mysterious men in the city, and since he's proved thus far to be amenable to answering questions (well, "answering"), I'm going to get what I can out of him. _God knows this situation needs some kind of silver lining._

"Ahh… now _what_ do I do?" He rests his chin on my head, and I freeze up for a second, but when he doesn't follow the movement up with a knife blade to my belly, I relax fractionally again—at least, as much as I can with him so close to me.

"Kill people. Hurt people… _damage_ this city even further than it's already been damaged." I don't even know if I'm making sense, but he seems to follow.

"Well, you see, I'm _sure_ there's a long and complicated explanation of it that would satisfy you… something involving a bell curve and _good and evil_ and how my Mommy sent me off to some school where pain was gospel and they carved these scars into my face," he says directly. "But it simply _wouldn't… be… true._ "

"Then what is the truth?" It's easier to ask the difficult question when I'm looking at his waistcoat instead of his face.

There's a pause, and then he says, breathing heavily as if the response is taking a physical toll on him, "I just… _want_ to."

I draw back from him finally, and he lets me, releasing my hand but still holding his arm loosely positioned against my back, keeping me from making a break for it if the thought should strike me. I look up at him. "That's fucked up."

He howls with laughter, finally letting go of me in order to stumble backward away from me, pressing his palm to his stomach and laughing as though this is the funniest thing he's ever heard. I'm not amused. I don't see anything funny about it.

As the moment stretches, I realize again how uncomfortable I am. Unlike most other people's laughter, his isn't contagious. It's just eerie.

"Well," he says, gasping for air, "well… well, I guess it really… it really depends on your point of _view._ But sure. I'll _humor_ you. I'm _fucked up._ "

 _Uh-oh._ This is not where I want the conversation to go.

"So how do you feel about me _now?_ " he asks, his head snapping up, and he's suddenly looking me dead in the eyes. All traces of laughter are gone; the only smile on his face is the gruesome Chelsea grin carved into his cheeks. "Feel the urge to… _fix_ … anything?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. The fear and adrenaline and focus have kept the urge to cry at bay thus far, but now, I feel myself growing close. I do _not_ want to see his reaction to tears, though. Something tells me that it won't be good.

When I open my eyes, he's somehow closed the five-foot gap between us in utter silence and is standing right in front of me, his ghastly-white face hovering inches away from mine.

I start to scream, but clamp my own hand over my mouth to cut it off before it can really form. _Stop it. Stop being so weak._ I muster up some anger, even though I'm suddenly very, _very_ tired—fear takes a seriously physical toll, and I've been afraid for… oh, _hours._

I drop my hand abruptly. "Will you _stop_ that?!"

"Stop _what_?" he asks, looking puzzled, still toying with me.

"Just—just _tell_ me. What do you want with me? Please, just _tell_ me."

"Oh!" He has the gall to look surprised, leaning in just a bit closer. "Well, you know," he says, squinting chummily at me, "you could have just _asked._ "

I bite my tongue. Snapping at him will do more bad than good, I'm sure of it.

He leans back, letting the silence fill the space between us for a few seconds. "Take a nap with me," he says finally, spreading his arms wide as if to say "that's all."

I blink at him. "You're kidding."

"Me?" He chortles. "Never!" I give him a look, and he holds up his hands, palms facing me, head tilted slightly down. "Okay, okay. You caught me, that's a lie. But I'm no _t_ … _kidding_ … about _this._ "

"You want me to take a nap with you."

"Yeah." Quickly, calmly, he answers my statement as though it was a question.

"A nap. With _you._ "

He looks hurt. "Well, what's _wrong_ with me?" He's playing with me again. Does he ever stop?

I decide not to risk answering that one. Instead, I look long and hard at him. I'm going to throw the thought that this is an impossible situation right out the window, because I'm in a room with the Joker, and I'm getting the increasing feeling that no situation is impossible with this man.

 _Still—_ "A nap? That's all?"

"Yup."

"Nothing else?"

"Cross my heart 'n hope to die," he says, drawing an x on his chest with a finger and then lifting his left hand, palm out.

I am not comfortable with this. I do not trust the word of a man who looks like he pushes grannies into rush hour traffic for fun. However, the way I see it… I have very little choice.

I move hesitantly to the corner with the wadded-up blankets in it, unsure of what, exactly, I'm supposed to do. He sees that I'm completely flabbergasted and seems to enjoy it. "What, here?" I ask.

"It's shabby, but it's a bed. Well. Sort of," he says, shrugging, his face telling me that he figures there are more important things to consider than having a comfortable place to sleep.

He walks over jerkily, joining me. "Go on," he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. " _Sit down._ "

A sudden, forceful push sends me sprawling down on the floor. He's giggling as I sit up. I am not comfortable with this. I have to tilt my head all the way back to look at him, and he's looking straight down at me, head cocked to the side, hands in his pockets, and a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Stop… _bullying_ me," I say, my throat getting that thick feeling that directly precedes tears.

"Aw," he says, a look of mock concern on his face, and he slowly lowers himself to my eye level, squatting with his hands clasped together between his knees. "Am I hurting your feelings?"

I don't say anything. I don't really trust my voice at this point. I'm terrified and exhausted, and I just want to go home.

"Well, I _do_ get a little grumpy when I'm tired," he says pensively. "Come on then," he adds, grasping me by the shoulder. "Down we go!"

I hit the floor hard with him. I don't move, don't struggle to fight him, defying all the instincts currently telling me to punch him in the balls and _run, damn it_. My eyes are tightly closed in an attempt to fight off the rising tears, and I hear him moving behind me. After a second, he throws a musty-smelling blanket over us.

And then, unexpectedly, he wraps his arms around me, the right positioned underneath my neck and supporting my head, the left draped over my waist. I draw a sharp, stifled breath at this turn of events, and I can feel every inch of him stretched out against me, the thin chest pushed hard against the back of my shoulders, the sharp angles of his hips pushing into my lower back, totally invading any pretense at personal space I've had up till now and totally inescapable.

For a long second, there is no sound but our respective breathing, mine erratic and loud, his quick and soft.

And then I feel sudden heat and moisture on the side of my throat, and— _teeth_. _His_ teeth, biting and bruising, tearing into my skin as his grip tightens on me. I want to scream—he's _hurting me_ and I don't understand why he's doing it, and I'm only able to keep from shrieking out because I'm somehow convinced that if I make a sound, then he won't stop biting till he's torn my throat out.

A few seconds, minutes, hours—I don't know—pass. He pulls back as suddenly as he started, and the cold air rushes in, making the bite hurt even more. I can tell he broke the skin, but… I don't think I'm bleeding. _What the hell was_ _ **that**_ _?_ I think shakily.

" _There_ ," he says, breath hot in my ear, sounding exasperated. "I've already _bit_ ya; now that you don't have to worry about that anymore, will you just _relax?_ Life would be a lot more fun for you if you just learned to do _that_."

I don't answer. The pain is fading away, or at least turning from sharp to dull, and I let myself sob once, twice. Then, my trusty old survival instincts kicking back into play, I force myself to calm down.

_Breathe. Just breathe._

I focus on steadying myself. He's still flush against me, and I can feel his stomach shifting as he breathes—quick and soft. I can't breathe as fast as he can and still be comfortable, but I still time my breathing according to his—one long breath for each of his two quick ones. It works.

The pain's gone except for a slow ache. I'm utterly worn out and I have tear tracks on my face and blood on my clothes. I'm also _warm._

I realize that I'm warm for the first time since this whole ordeal started. One benefit of his frenzied lifestyle seems to be his high temperature—his sleeves are rolled up, he's not wearing a coat or gloves, and he's still burning up. He'd be too warm for comfort if I wasn't so damn cold already.

_Maybe he's sick._

The thought is unwelcome. I'm too worn down, don't want to think about the fact that he could be carrying something, _exposing_ me to something. I focus instead on his forearm, locked carelessly around my waist. His skin is ashen white, darkened a little by a sweep of hair. The hand attached is big, with long fingers, reddened and a little bruised at the base of the knuckles. The fingernails are trimmed short and square, but they're dirty.

Whatever's beneath his thumbnail is the color of rust. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don't want them touching me—I don't want _him_ touching me, and I want to lock up and tear myself away from him one piece at a time, but I'm afraid that if I do that, he'll bite me again, or worse. Fighting the urge to flee is exhausting, this whole _ordeal_ has been exhausting, and before I know it—

—lost my train of thought, and I open my eyes abruptly. _Alarming,_ that happens when I'm falling asleep, and I _can't_ fall asleep.

I have to wait for _him_ to fall asleep, and then—and then find some way of…

Of…

…it's very warm here. He's not threatening. He hasn't said another word. The pain in my neck is so dull now, easy to ignore if I just don't think about it.

Can't go to sleep. He'll slaughter me. String me from the Clock Tower. Eat me alive. I can't—

_He'll do those things anyway. Doesn't need me asleep for any of it. Probably would prefer me awake, as a matter of fact._

_And if I sleep, I can escape him. Just for a while._

I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I wake up.

The first thing I realize, after a few seconds of incomprehension, is that I'm in my own bed. It's dark beyond the windows; someone turned on my bedside lamp and to me it looks like the light has a fuzzy halo, like I've had too much to drink. I'm groggy, my body feels weighted down.

 _Have I been drugged?_ I think hazily. I've never been drugged before, but if I'm in my bed…

 _My bed._ That means he knows where I live. I recognize the realization as a shocking one, but I don't _feel_ shocked, just slow, sleepy, incapable of panicking.

_Just a dream?_

I sit up. The movement causes a powerful throbbing at my throat, and I close my eyes again and draw in a slow, full breath. _No. He bit me. Not a dream._ The lingering soreness proves it.

The soreness, and the fact that I have something in my hand.

There are several things, actually. I can feel them. They're hard and sharp… and little. I have a sneaking suspicion. I don't want to look.

I can't help it. Carefully, I curl back my fingers. The Joker's parting gift lies in my palm.

Four baby teeth. They look like they had belonged to a little girl.

 


	2. Salvage

_I'm not here_  
_This isn't happening_  
**-Radiohead, How to Disappear Completely ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZq_jeYsbTs))  
**

In the past month, I've learned exactly what being robbed, witnessing a number of murders, and being taken hostage by the most notorious domestic terrorist in the world entails. There's the interrogation by the police, but that's a given. There are the blood tests by the hospital following almost panicked insistence by the cops once they realized that not only had someone stuck a needle in me to keep me drugged and asleep while I was returned home, but that the Joker's saliva had almost definitely gotten into my bloodstream, not to mention the exposure to blood from other hostages. There are reporters wanting to know everything from how many people were killed to, creepily, what he smells like, but once again, that's par for the course, especially given this city's obsession with the man—it's almost as powerful as their fear of him. No, when all is said and done, it was the overall effect on my psychological well-being that caught me by surprise.

Imagine, for a second, waking up in your own bed after falling asleep tightly restrained by the arms of one of the scariest men on the entire planet. Imagine knowing you'd been drugged, finding four baby teeth in your hand. Imagine coming to the realization that he must know where you live. Now imagine _not_ wanting to turn into a paranoid shut-in immediately afterwards.

Unfortunately, I wasn't so lucky. Even _if_ I'd been fully willing to roll over and give in to the temptation to never leave my house again, the Gotham PD had other ideas. They kept me at that station for hours, questioning me, trying to make sure that I had _nothing_ to do with the robbery. They found it suspicious that I had been returned, relatively unharmed, to my own home. Very few people, they said, had had such a _personal_ (emphasis included) encounter with the Joker and lived to tell the tale. Finally, impatient after about six hours of implications, disrespect, and flat-out accusations on the police's end, I accused them of blaming the victim of this whole royally fucked-up situation. After giving me a hard time about my 'attitude,' they let me go, and I didn't hear much from them afterwards.

I established a routine. I mean, yeah, I wanted to be cool and throw caution to the wind, say _screw routines, I'm strong and not afraid_ —but I'm a survivalist at heart. It might be _cool_ to prance around the streets of Gotham footloose and fancy-free directly after a terrifying encounter with the Joker, but it is certainly not _sensible_.

I installed two deadbolts on my door. I stay away from banks, police hangouts, hospitals, and wealthy parts of town—really, anywhere that _he_ might be, though admittedly, it's difficult to tell for sure, since nothing and no one seems too small for his deadly notice. I try not to go out after night, though an evening class I'm taking at Gotham University at the moment makes that little determination impossible once a week. Penniless student, halfway through the class with good grades—I'm not going to drop it _now_. Funny how even after a near-death experience, people will _still_ be concerned about money. But hey, you need money to live, right? Caring about something as mundane as finances after _the incident_ helps bring a much-needed sense of normalcy to my life.

I replenished my supply of mace. I keep a pocket knife on me—anything with a blade longer than four inches is illegal here, but even a tiny blade is something of a comfort. I looked into getting a gun, but the steady growth of crime in the city means that legislators have been pushing stricter and stricter gun laws in the region. As a result, the only people who own guns in Gotham City are cops and criminals (and if I'm being honest, it's pretty hard to distinguish between the two these days).

The bite mark on the side of my neck blossomed into a series of vivid colors and several patchy scabs where his teeth had broken through. All told, it took two weeks to fade to a regular dim-brown bruise shade, and another week for the discoloration to disappear entirely. I taped gauze over it for the first week, covered it with my hair and scarves for the next two. That cute teacher's aide I was checking out before I'd been pulled into that little situation? He looks at me like I'm a freak now, like I'm ready to blow, but these days, I don't care. I'm just focusing on finishing this last year of school and leaving this city for good.

I try not to think about that little girl. I try not to think about the situation at all, to be honest. The whole thing gives me insomnia.

I don't watch the news anymore, but even so, it's impossible to avoid him. Yesterday I was out grocery shopping. I walked past an electronics store on the street and caught sight of his picture on the screen—smeared greasepaint, dingy green hair, ghastly yellow grin and all, just frozen in place for everyone to see. I looked away hastily before I could read the caption beneath, but the damage was done. I didn't sleep last night.

It's showing today. The need for sleep combined with the inability to do so has made me even jumpier than usual, and, wearing big dark shades and wrapped in a baggy black hoodie and black jeans, I tuck myself into the darkest corner of every classroom, away from the teachers and other students. Nobody says anything. One of the benefits of press coverage—if someone you're acquainted with is involved in any way with Gotham's favorite clown, everyone knows about it, and everyone quickly gives you space as if you've been infected by him, as if contact with him has magically turned you into some sort of leper. It would suck if I was one of those people who wanted others around in a crisis, but I never _was_ much of a people person, least of all when they might be pestering me to relive one of the most terrifying moments of my life again and again, so it works to my advantage.

And yet, I'm not traumatized. At least, I don't _think_ I am. I'm not a basket case, incapable of human interaction because I was taken hostage. Sure, I'm scared of running into him again, but I haven't turned into an agoraphobe. Honestly, I've always been a little wary of human interaction in general, though not quite to the same extent, have always been teetering on the edge of adopting habitual mistrust of other people. The incident with the Joker just gave me a reason—or several—to avoid all humankind whenever possible.

I don't want to answer questions about what it was like, or field mingled curious and sympathetic looks from those too timid to ask me flat-out. I should probably be grateful. For one thing, I was not killed—was indeed barely injured that day. For another, now I have an _excuse_ to be weird and antisocial.

We're watching a film in class. Pre-incident me would have taken that as an opportunity to catch up on the sleep I lost last night, but now, I find myself increasingly reluctant to lose focus in public. Every time I _do_ sleep or become lost in thought, I get roughly three minutes of calm, then something in my brain snaps, screams _pay attention, he's here!_ Cue me jumping violently, looking all around in panic, and fighting a rapidly-beating heart for the next thirty minutes. I'd rather stay vigilant than deal with the panic attacks that are certain to follow any lapses in focus.

It's going to be difficult to stay aware, though, what with the sleep deprivation, the warmth of the room, and the dark combined with the frankly uninteresting material of the documentary we're watching.

Fifteen minutes go by and I'm struggling. Every few seconds, my vision starts to blur; my head droops, my eyes shut, and then I warn myself against sleeping and jerk back awake for a little while before the cycle repeats. I start pinching myself on the arm, harder and harder to try and stave off the drowsiness.

It doesn't work.

I wake up. I can't have been out of it for long, maybe a minute or two, but I wake up looking directly at a shadow on the opposite wall, and as I watch, it shifts into a long, skinny, grotesque shape. _It can't be him,_ I tell myself, but I'm getting up anyway, moving as quietly as possible to gather my stuff. I'm not going to make it through this class. A couple of people turn their heads as I leave, but no one says anything, and then I'm out in the grey corridor, releasing a breath I didn't know I was holding once I cross from the dark classroom into the light.

I take the long walk to my car, nervously fingering the mace on my keychain, casting fleeting glances all around. There are no immediate threats, but I still sigh in relief when I reach the parking lot, checking the backseat before climbing in and locking all the doors.

Now. I need coffee if I'm going to stay conscious on the drive home.

There's a Starbucks on campus, but it's on the opposite side, and there happens to be a little Mom & Pop diner around the corner that serves better, fresher coffee in pretty large to-go cups for half the price. I start the ignition, glancing up through the windshield at the pearly grey sky as I pull out of the lot and start driving.

The windows of the diner are slightly steamed up and glow yellow from the light inside, and I actually relax as I climb out of the car. The whole place exudes such a homey feeling, a kind of pleasant oasis in the cold concrete world of Gotham. I see several shadows moving inside, and for once I'm comforted by the knowledge that there are other people around. The patrons of this place aren't likely to know who I am, after all, and there's nothing more uncomfortable than an empty diner.

I climb the steps and pull open the door. A bell rings, announcing my presence as I step inside, and that's when I see the guns.

What _should_ be going through my mind right now? Because the first thought that hits me is _not again,_ quickly followed by _this is completely impossible._

Several guys wearing clown masks rush over as I back into the door, shouting and pointing their guns. Their words blur together into indistinct noise, and I shut my eyes against the confusion. _A diner?_ _ **Really?**_ _What could they possibly want in a dinky little place like this?_

A soft voice cuts through the shouts, strange and carrying and instantly recognizable. "Put her with the others."

My eyes fly open. _Don't look around,_ I order myself, but it's too late—as two goons grab my arms and start pulling me further in, I look, and my gaze locks on his painted face. He's standing at the counter. He sees me, and despite the black hood covering my hair, I see recognition flare in his eyes.

 _Shit._ My knees go weak, and one of the guys swears at me, jabs the barrel of a gun into my head, telling me to _walk, damn it_ , but I can't. I sag uselessly between them, and the Joker raises a hand. "Wait."

All motion ceases, everyone quits shouting, and we're all stuck in this hideous tableau for seconds, years, as he stares. Finally, he licks his lips and says, "Bring her over here."

The gun comes down from my head and the clowns half-escort, half-drag me towards him. My head lolls to the side and I see the other patrons and the wait staff, all cloistered in the corner, two other goons standing over them, making the occasional threatening gesture with their guns.

It's times like these when I really understand the theory of relativity. Seconds turned to hours just a moment ago as I stood paralyzed in fear, but it feels like just the span of a heartbeat before I'm deposited onto a stool right next to where he's standing. The acrid smell of him permeates the air around me, and I slump, staring hard at the counter to avoid looking at him.

He's not having it. I flinch and recoil as his hand touches my face, but his fingers tighten around my chin, grimy and bruising, and he jerks my head up. I look up at him unwillingly, sensing that further resistance will just irritate him, and he sweeps the hood off my head with his other hand. My hair tumbles free, and he practically purrs with satisfaction.

"Em," he says simply, and releases my face. He turns to the clowns as I readjust my precarious position on the stool, settling more firmly in my seat and twisting to set my elbows on the counter to steady myself, and instructs them to flip the _open_ sign around and lock the door. _They must have only gotten here a moment before I did_ , I think, and I scoff to myself. _Of all the luck in the world, this is mine._

My stomach twists into knots as one of the goons moves to obey, and the clicking of the lock echoes ominously through the diner, somehow audible even over the sounds of the movements and whimpering of the other hostages. _Trapped._

The Joker straightens his purple suit-jacket and straddles the stool to my left, between me and the other hostages. There are two cooks standing in subdued silence behind the counter, next to the grill, and as I draw a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever ordeal I'm about to face, one of the guards comes over, depositing an armload of phones onto the counter in front of us. "Cell phones, boss."

"Mm," the Joker hums noncommittally, waving the guy back towards the corner. I risk a quick look around. The other two guys are watching the door, so even if I _did_ manage to mace him and run for it, my way out would be blocked.

" _So,_ " the Joker rumbles, and my attention is magnetized back to him. He picks up a cell phone, examines it meticulously, and turns his head to look at me. I try not to flinch back from his stare. "Fancy seeing _you_ here," he says, and with a flick of his wrist, he flings the cell phone across the counter and directly into the deep fryer. Hot oil splashes onto one of the cooks, who flinches away.

The Joker glares. "Ah-ah-ah," he says sharply, and extends one long finger, pointing at the spot the cook has just vacated. The man slowly moves back, and, eyes fixed on him, the Joker throws another phone. This time, the cook withstands the flecks of hot oil, grimacing as they hit his skin but mostly staying put. The Joker nods, satisfied for now, and rolls his eyes to the side, looking at me from the edge of his vision.

"You aren't _stalking_ me, are you, li'l Em?"

The accusation startles a hard laugh out of me. He turns his head, watching me, a slight frown pulling his mouth down, and the contrast against the reddened Glasgow smile is grotesque. _Stop laughing_ _ **right**_ _ **now**_ _,_ I tell myself, but it's too late—I've already started, and the fear and the absurdity of the idea make it impossible to stop, the laughter a twisted take on sleepover giggles but with an edge of crazy. If anything, that realization should make me quit, but it's no use. Hysteria has set in.

I drop my head to the counter, forehead resting on the cool surface, and I bang my fist down hard. This proves to be a mistake—I feel his fingers closing hard around my wrist, and I jerk my head up again as he twists my arm around, looking down on it.

 _Oh, shit_ , I think, realizing as I catch sight of my skin that I must have pinched my arm harder than I thought while I was trying to stay awake in class. There are about half a dozen crescent-shaped red marks marring the soft white flesh of the underside of my forearm, the skin around them turning bluish. They'll be bruises by morning.

 _Provided I survive till then_.

At least I've quit laughing, and as I catch my breath, I resolve not to let myself start again. He lifts his eyes to mine and raises one eyebrow, half-questioning, half-mocking. I clear my throat and feel a sudden rush of embarrassment, though I have no idea why. "I… was trying not to fall asleep," I say, pulling on my arm. He lets me go, and I fold it against my stomach. I'm not sure why I want to hide the marks from him. It's not like he cares what I do to myself.

"Hmm," he says, and swivels around to face the kitchen again. "So _Em,_ " he begins again, aiming and chucking the cell phones one at a time into the fryer."What'll ya have? My treat." I shake my head vehemently. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. "Not hungry?"

I shake my head again, and he chortles to himself, _hee-hee-hee_ , ah, yes, _ha ha,_ it's all so _funny._ "Well you _had_ to come in here for _some_ thing. What, are ya friends with one of the folks that _works_ here? Hmm?" He rotates on the stool again, sprawling his long torso across the bar with one elbow supporting him as he fixes me with a conspiratorial look. "Is one of 'em your… _special_ fella?"

"No." And then, adamantly, in response to the caricature of skepticism he pulls across his face, " _No_." I don't want to risk lying to him, or letting him _think_ I'm lying— _though_ _ **this**_ _lie might divert his attention from me,_ I think, belatedly and selfishly. Truth wins out, probably mostly because it's already on the tip of my tongue. "I told you, I was falling asleep. I—I stopped by for some coffee."

He turns again, looks around, and then half stands, reaching over to one of the dish racks for a clean coffee cup. He bangs it on the counter in front of me, stretches a long arm out to snatch a half-full coffee pot from its burner, and haphazardly sloshes some into the cup, slamming the pot emphatically down in front of us once he's filled it to the brim. I'm surprised nothing's shattered on impact, what with all the force he's using, but I don't say anything, just lift wary eyes up to his face to see how I should react to this. He's watching me, and when he sees that he's caught my eye, he winks before turning to the cooks.

"Well, _I'm_ hungry," he says, ostensibly to me, but he's looking at them now. "I'm _famished._ "

They take the hint. The one by the fryer steps forward—gratefully, I should think, if the red oil burns now flecking his skin are anything to go by. "What… what do you want us to make?"

The Joker takes a deep breath and then releases it in a long hiss, drumming his fingers restlessly against the counter in front of him as I silently grab a napkin and mop up some of the coffee he spilled a second ago. Something about cleaning up the mess calms me, the normal thing to do in an absolutely _ab_ normal situation.

"Surprise me," he says simply at the end of his exhale. The cooks exchange a wary look, and for a second, I feel really, really bad for them. What if they make something he doesn't like? What if they make something he _really_ doesn't like? Oil burns might then be the _least_ of their problems.

He doesn't appreciate the delay. From somewhere on his hip, he produces a revolver, which he slams on the counter, the barrel pointed roughly in their direction. " _Well?_ " he croons impatiently, horrible and high as they stare at the gun, which spurs them into motion. They start rummaging for supplies, and the Joker snatches the napkin out of my grip, balling it up one-handed then tossing it onto the kitchen floor. "Drink up," he orders.

It seems wise to obey, despite the fact that there's no cream or sugar in easy reach and I hate my coffee black. I sip the brimming cup down to a safer level before returning it to the counter.

The Joker rolls his shoulder back, wincing as his joints make a rapid series of pops. I clear my throat, and he blinks at me. " _Yes_?"

"You came here to get _food?_ " I ask, and my heartbeat increases as I realize that the question came out a lot saucier than I meant for it to. I have an established tendency to blurt things out without thinking when I'm under pressure, and I realize right away that the question could be taken as insolence—or worse, as flirtation _._

Flirtation is the _last_ thing I have on my mind right now, not with him in front of me, grinning and creaking and deadly. I don't know what sort of notions he's formed about me in that mind of his, but certain things make me wary—the bite, the nap, the "innocent" probing to find out if I have a boyfriend here… I just don't want to play with fire.

He turns his head slowly, resting it at an angle on his shoulder, staring as if offended. "Well… _yeah,_ " he says, sounding bemused. "I mean, that's what this place is _for_ , isn't it? _Food?_ "

"Grocery stores work, too," I assure him, and then mentally slap myself across the face. _Shut the hell_ _ **up,**_ _Emma._

His cheeks bunch up, jaws move—I shudder as I realize he's chewing on the inner seams of his cheeks, the backsides of his scars. I don't think that little habit of his will ever cease to freak me out. I hope it never does—that would mean I'd been around him enough to grow accustomed to it. That's _definitely_ not part of the plan.

He frees his scars with a sucking sound, and extends a finger, looping it from one side of his face around to the other. "It's, ah—it's not really _easy_ to go out looking like _this_ these days."

I glance over my shoulder at the clowns. The masks make it hard to tell, but I think they're watching us. I jab a thumb behind me. "Granted. So why don't you send one of them?"

He squints over his shoulder in the direction I've indicated, then presses his lips together and laughs through his nose, turning his head back so that he can keep an eye on the cooks. "Sure. _You_ try finding someone on my team who can cook something other than, ah, _napalm._ "

I'm not sure why _that's_ what gets me, but the bitterness of the coffee combined with the stress of the situation added to the smell of fire smoke and gasoline just _rolling_ off of him and the mention of napalm cause my stomach to give an almighty lurch. I crash forward onto my elbows, both hands clapped over my mouth as I try to fight the nausea.

He chuckles, an altogether different sound from the near-hysterics he's displayed before—this is lower, more menacing. I feel his fingers fluttering at the edge of my hoodie, and then they've worked the fabric to the side and clasp over my shoulder. He squeezes hard, then releases—squeeze, release… squeeze, release. I'm not sure what he's doing, but I'm in no mood, and the heat of his hand is making me feel even sicker. I reach over, leaving one hand pressed hard against my mouth, and bat his arm away roughly.

He doesn't like that. One second, I'm sitting there trying not to vomit, the next, his fingers are wound into my hair at the roots, jerking me towards him as he puts the barrel of the revolver against my jaw. I half rise out of my seat, and one hand goes up to his, curling around it and trying to remove it without also losing half of my hair. The other hand flails for some kind of support so that I don't fall to the ground (which would _also_ result in me losing half of my hair, since his grip isn't loosening in the slightest) and it lands on his thigh; my fingers splay out across it for balance and I finally reach a tenuous security, contorted uncomfortably halfway between my seat and his.

He scrunches up his eyes, twisting his hand and bringing me even further down, leaning over my face malevolently. " _Rude,_ " he croons in a trembling sing-song. "Why do you wanna get _violent,_ huh, Em? I thought that we were getting a- _long_ here. I thought we were, uh, having _fun._ "

His eyes consume my vision, burning pits of black, and carelessly, he begins moving the barrel of the gun along my jawline, up and down. "Were you having fun?" he asks softly.

There's nothing aimless about the gentle strokes; the gun is a clear threat. "Yes," I growl. He tightens his fingers, twisting them in my hair, and that growl turns rapidly into a whimper. He turns his head, leaning closer.

"What's that?"

" _Yes,_ I'm having _fun,_ " I say through gritted teeth. He holds me suspended for a moment, and then, slowly, he loosens his fingers, freeing them from my hair. He actually pats my head before I manage to push off of his leg and return to my stool, disheveled and angry and helpless to actually do anything about it.

" _Good,_ " he says, and then rests his elbow on the counter and fires the gun.

It hits one of the cooks in the center of the back. The gunshot echoes in the enclosed space, impossibly loud, and a high ringing fills my ears, muting the screaming coming from the hostage corner. _Look,_ I think to myself, feeling stunned as I stare at the wall in front of the cook, now laced with a graceful arc of red.

The ringing subsides slowly, and I turn my horrified eyes to the Joker, who's frowning. "That _can't_ be sanitary," he says, plunking the gun back down on the counter, fingers curled loosely around the hilt as the cook falls heavily to the ground. The other one freezes, deer in headlights, staring down at his fallen colleague in shock.

I feel dizzy. The bile is rising in my throat. "Wh—what— _why did you do that?_ " I shriek, rising off of my stool. The Joker's eyes flick towards me; all in an instant he's grabbed my arm and jerked me back down.

" _Settle down,_ " he orders emphatically.

It's no use. I twist around, managing to turn from him and double over before the sparse contents of my stomach come up and spill all over the floor. I hear various sounds of disgust from the clowns, but I'm _far_ from caring what they think at this point. They're not the ones I have to worry about.

I stay bent over for a second, heaving uselessly, before I feel a tap on my shoulder. Slowly, reluctantly, I straighten up and turn, and he's waving a napkin impatiently in my face. Automatically, I take it and wipe my mouth, suddenly grateful that I didn't puke all over him. Something tells me he wouldn't have taken kindly to that at _all._

Hands shaking, I reach forward and grab the coffee mug. I drain it, swapping one bitter taste for a marginally pleasanter one, and the Joker shakes his head, looking thoroughly displeased by the whole situation.

"To answer your question, ah, _Em,_ " he says, leaning over the counter and glancing almost curiously down at the fallen cook as I unsteadily set the cup back down, "The, uh—the cook was getting a little _fresh_ with the seasonings. Saw him go under the sink just a second ago." He looks at me, and he must see the complete incomprehension I'm feeling in my expression, because he rolls his eyes in annoyance and bends forward towards me. "Well, where did _your_ daddy keep the rat poison?"

The tears arrive belatedly, and I cover my mouth, this time to try and disguise the crumpling of my face as I start to lose the very shaky pretense of control I've been maintaining.

He watches, unblinking. "Oh, shush," he says softly, intentionally misunderstanding my distress. "Don't cry. It'll take more than a… _conniving_ cook to kill _me_.

"I've gotta say, though," he continues, standing with a wince and brushing off his jacket, "I've _completely_ lost my appetite. What do you say, boys?" he asks, lifting his voice and turning to sweep his gaze over his clowns. "Let's empty the register and _blow_ this joint."

As the two by the door obediently spring into action, he moves behind me, putting his hand on my shoulder and clenching it painfully as he ducks down, putting his face right beside mine. "And when I say blow, I _do_ mean _blow,_ " he says softly, conspiratorially, brushing his tacky cheek against mine, perhaps unintentionally. "So maybe you should get outta here before things get really… er, _explosive_ —huh?"

I slip out from beneath his hand and run for the door as his manic laughter pierces my ears, stumbling, expecting to feel a hail of bullets in my back at any second. I struggle with the simple lock for a second before I manage to flip it, and then I fling the door open and take in several deep gulps of the cold air.

I stumble to my car, get the door open, and crank the ignition before digging my phone out of my pocket. It takes my shaking fingers three tries to dial 911.

Even as the operator answers, I'm pulling haphazardly from the parking lot, quashing my guilt for leaving when there are still hostages inside. _You're doing the most you can for them right now,_ I reason with myself, and blurt, "Davis's Diner outside of Gotham U. The Joker's in there. He has hostages. He's going to blow it up. _Hurry!_ "

I glance in my rearview mirror and drop my phone in panic as he and his clowns emerge behind me, heading towards a windowless van I should have noticed when I first arrived. I stare at the mirror, incapable of tearing my eyes away as his henchmen flood around him into the van and he stops, standing completely still and staring at the back of my car, seeming to see the mirror, to see _me_ watching him.

He lifts an arm and points. I see him mouthing something.

I rev the engine and take a sharp turn into the road, cutting off another car in my haste to escape, to get out from under his eyes. I try not to think about the implications of the gesture. I try to tell myself that I'll never see him again.

As sirens start blaring in the distance, I tell myself that the hostages will get out of the diner before the bombs go.

They'll get out.

_They'll get out._


	3. Interlude I

_It's the devil's way now; there is no way out_  
_You can scream and you can shout_  
_It's too late now_  
_- **Radiohead, 2 + 2 = 5 ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lstDdzedgcE))  
**_

I blink.

The light in the interrogation room is harsh and fluorescent, putting a sickly yellow-gray cast on the entire area and everyone inside. Granted, I felt ill long before I arrived here, but this light is not helping.

I'm not cuffed, but frankly, I might as well be. The revolving door of cops popping in to interrogate me has certainly made me feel like a criminal.

I'm facing the third cop in a row—grizzled, heavyset, and belligerent. He squints at me, and calmly, he asks, "So how does the Joker usually get in touch with you?"

I exhale sharply. There's a headache swelling behind my right eye, and once again, the light is not helping. "I already told you," I say tonelessly—I've already wasted my wrath on the two cops that preceded him and all that's left now is a weary resignation. "I was stopping for coffee on my way out from the university. I didn't realize what was going on until I was already inside and it was too late to get out. I ran into him by accident."

"Then why'd he let you go?" the cop demands. "By our count, this is the second time you've been released— _unharmed,_ I might add—from a hostage situation orchestrated by the Joker." He pauses, waiting for a response, but I don't have one for him, and he knows it. He lets the silence stretch, getting some kind of morbid pleasure from this, letting his point settle in, and then raises his eyebrows. "Y'know, most people are lucky just to _survive_ one encounter with that freak. Twice is unprecedented."

"Batman's done it," I snap. I know I shouldn't get cranky, but I'm in pain and I feel sickened by the events of the day, and I do not want to deal with this at the moment. I just want to go home and sleep.

"Are you Batman?" he snarls.

"Do I _look_ like a six-foot flying rat?" I demand.

"Well, if you aren't, then there's only one other group I can think of that routinely gets out alive with him, and those are the clowns!"

"If I was a clown, why would I call _you?_ What _possible_ reason would I have to alert the police if I was working with him?!"

"Covering your tracks. Forming a solid alibi."

"No," I say, narrowing my eyes. "It's because I want to save people, if possible at all."

"You still haven't given an answer. Why did he let you go alive?"

I throw up my hands, hunch my shoulders, and cry out, "I don't know! I don't know his motives any more than you do! He's completely insane; I can't tell you why he decides to do what he does!"

"Well, then, gimme your best guess," he challenges.

I sputter wordlessly for a moment, one hand waving uselessly as I try to rise to the demand. "I… I don't know, he likes to mess with people's minds, right? Maybe he knows that your department would suspect me, wants to make my life difficult."

"Then we're back to personal interest," he declares, brows rushing down, thick furrows forming in his forehead. "So what interest does he have in you?"

"I don't know. I don't _know,_ " I repeat, slumping in defeat. "If I say it again, will you believe me? I have no idea what he wants or what he's doing. I'm being jerked around, just like you are."

He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but his radio goes off. The fuzzy voice on the other end is indiscernible to me; I can't focus long enough to make sense of it, but he apparently understands, picks up the device, mutters a curt response, and then shoves his chair back and gets up, stalking out of the room.

I throw my elbows on the table and bury my head in my hands, knitting my fingers in my hair and letting it stream down around my face and shoulders. _When did I make the transition from victim to suspect?_ I wonder with a soft groan.

The door buzzes open, and I look wearily up, expecting another interrogator. I find a young man instead, lean and dark-haired, clean-shaven and guilty-faced. He carries a Styrofoam cup, and he hurries over and sets it on the table in front of me. "I brought you some coffee," he says, and I swear, he blushes. "I—I thought you might need a pick-me-up."

I watch him warily, but reach out and accept the drink. "Are we playing good cop, bad cop?" I ask. "Cause that works for me. If you're the good cop, you can stay."

He looks around nervously. "Ah… not exactly. I'm not even supposed to be in here, to tell you the truth."

"Oh." I sip the coffee. It's not the greatest I've ever had, but hell, at least it's hot. "Well, then, why _are_ you here?"

He gestures aimlessly. "I, uh… I felt kind of sorry for you, y'know? You've already been through a lot, and now this whole interrogation thing… it seems like they're making you run a gauntlet here, and I'm not so sure you deserve it."

I smile wryly. "What, you don't think I'm just a not-so-cleverly-disguised Joker lackey?"

"No, I don't," he says firmly. "And I don't think they do, either. Not really. They're just…" He draws a hissing breath in through his teeth, clearly struggling to express himself. "They're frustrated. He keeps slipping through their fingers, and they _hate_ that. They're trying _really_ hard to find something they can hang on to."

"So they grasp at straws and turn on his victims?" I shake my head. "Even for desperate men, that's far from a reasonable solution."

"I didn't say it was right," he says quietly. "I'm just trying to make sense of it for you."

I shake my head and chuckle humorlessly. "Thanks. But it's still nonsensical."

"I know," he says.

The door buzzes again and he jumps a mile, lending credence to his declaration that he really isn't supposed to be here. A slim man with a gray mustache and impressively rumpled hair enters and regards the young officer. "Eli," he says in warning.

"Yep, I was just on my way out," says Eli, quickly scooting past his superior.

"Thanks for the coffee," I say as he disappears through the door.

The slim man sits opposite me, and as he does, I realize that I recognize him. He's been on TV increasingly often in the past few months. "Commissioner Gordon," I say, offering that recognition to him warily now. I don't know how to feel about him just yet. He has a certain look in the lines of his face and the light of his eyes, a sort of weary kindness, but he's still a politician of sorts, and he's the head of the corrupted department that has been making my life hell for the past few hours.

"Miss Vane. Let me apologize," he says immediately, startling me. "I just got in from the diner scene. I had no idea that they'd been holding you here. They shouldn't be keeping you like a criminal; it was definitely the wrong approach."

I blink. I didn't expect this. What do I say in response? I can't tell him that it's okay; that would be a flat lie. Still, I'm grateful, and I find my tongue. "I appreciate that," I say, very quietly. "Thank you."

He nods. "I hope you can understand the reasoning behind it, though. For the Joker to take an interest in an average Gotham citizen… well, it's…"

"Unprecedented," I say for him. I'm beginning to get tired of that word. He nods again.

"And worrying," he adds. "For you to survive _two_ encounters with the man, it's… it's got the guys nervous. They think you have to be in cahoots with him somehow." I try unsuccessfully to smother a laugh, but he notices despite my best efforts, lifting a questioning eyebrow. _Laughter isn't appropriate right now,_ I remind myself, but it's still nice to know that I remember how.

"Sorry. You said 'in cahoots,' that's all. I don't hear that phrase very often; it just tickled me," I explain, feeling foolish. _Get a grip, Emma._

His mustache twitches. Nice to know I'm not the only one clinging to my scant sense of humor, as sinister as inappropriately-timed humor has become in Gotham. He pulls it back easily and continues as though I hadn't interrupted, though—"Can you think of anything, Miss Vane, anything at all that could have sparked this interest?"

I show my palms. "Commissioner, with respect to the department's theories about me and him, I'm still not sure he _has_ any kind of interest. Our encounters have been completely accidental, as far as I can tell, unplanned by either of us. I'll grant you that the second time was a _huge_ coincidence, but coincidences _do_ happen." I shrug. "What're you gonna do?"

He nods, but I can see from his expression that he's not buying it, not really, and his next carefully-chosen words confirm it: "Running into him, maybe. But the Joker treats the citizens like his personal cannon fodder in the war against the city; there are eight fresh bodies out there tonight that prove it." I flinch at the mention of the diner victims, the people who had been locked inside and blown apart before the police could help. Gordon speaks gently, clearly conscious of the survivor's guilt beating a tattoo across my mind. "For him to run into you _twice_ and let you go almost unscathed… well, it does indicate some kind of interest, even though I'm sorry to say it."

I have no response to that. He watches me for a moment before clearing his throat, signifying that he's about to push further into the unpleasant topic.

"The first time you encountered him…" He hesitates, clears this throat again and looks down at the table. He's rubbing a scratch on the cold metal, pressing his thumb into it as if he can polish it away. "You reported that he'd bitten you."

"No." The word rises from my mouth, unbidden, but I see where he's heading and my entire mind recoils from the thought. He looks up, startled, and if I'm not mistaken, he looks almost… ashamed. Chagrined might be a better word. He doesn't want to talk about this any more than I do, and I find that I like him a little better for it.

"No, he didn't bite you?"

"No… I mean, he did, but…" I feel a hot flush rising to my face, doubtless blotchy and ugly beneath the freckles and pale skin. "It wasn't… it's not what you're thinking."

"Miss Vane." His face is apologetic, but he presses on, this time holding my stare. "I understand how uncomfortable the thought must be making you, but among men with his pathology—antisocial, and violently so—biting is often characterized as sexual behavior."

It's suddenly very hot, and I'm feeling immensely embarrassed and uncomfortable. I want nothing more than to curl up and hide from this discussion, but it's not possible, so I force myself to keep it together. "I didn't get that impression at all. I think he was preying on my fears—right before, I'd mentioned my worry that his thoughts were turning towards…" My throat seizes up; I realize that I can't say it.

Gordon doesn't make me. He's not a psychologist, this isn't a therapy session, and I get the impression that he doesn't want to hear the thought voiced any more than I want to voice it. "Understood. But you see where I'm coming from—he's kept you alive. It speaks towards some kind of partiality, a… an attachment."

I shake my head violently. "I don't think so, Commissioner. I… well, think about it, can you really see him adjusting his plans to accommodate some sort of… preference he may have for me?"

He looks at me. I can see in his eyes that he _does_ think so, he thinks it's the only possible logical thread running through this harebrained mess. Simply, quietly, he asks, "Can you think of any other explanation?"

Something's rising from my stomach to my head, dark and violent—revulsion in its purest form. I fight it, and a voice that's too strangled to be mine emerges from my mouth. "He's… he's playing with me now. Twisting me. I have no doubt that if he wanted me… in that way… he'd have gotten what he wanted by now. I… I think he's playing a sort of idle game, if anything, and Commissioner, let me tell you, I'm scared."

He looks at me, then picks up his radio. "Bring some water, please." He puts the radio down and reaches across, patting my hand. I know my distress is obvious; even if he'd made no move to comfort me, I can feel it in my face and hear it in my voice. I take a moment to rein myself in as the door opens and one of the cops that questioned me earlier comes in, surly and silent, and sets a bottle of water on the table in front of Gordon.

The Commissioner pulls his hand back, pushes the water over to me, and waves the other cop out of the room. I twist the cap off and drink, feeling a touch calmer.

Gordon waits for the officer to leave before speaking again. "Do you live with anyone? Have any family close?"

I shake my head as matter-of-factly as possible—I'm already making a fool of myself; I don't need a pity party from him. "My parents are dead. I have a great aunt, but she's too old to trouble with something like this. Besides, she lives in Nebraska and I'm here on scholarship—if I mess up and go home now, I lose my ride."

He nods, looking pensive. After a moment, he nods once more. "Well, Miss Vane. If you're lucky, this will be the last time you run into the Joker."

"But," I say, sensing more.

"But," he allows, "I have to say, I don't think it's likely. You woke up in your own home after the first encounter, is that right?"

"Yes." My throat is thickening again. I take another sip of water to distract myself.

"Which means he knows where you live." Gordon appears to reach a decision. "Here's what I'm gonna do, and with any luck, this will be mutually beneficial—I'm going to have the department keep a close eye on you. Cruisers rolling past your apartment to check every half hour or so, plainclothes police officers nearby when you go out. If the Joker tries to go after you again, then with luck, we'll catch him."

I can see in his eyes that he doesn't really believe it, and I'm not sure how I feel about being tailed around town by Gotham PD. Then again, Gordon's the leader of the department, and _he_ seems to have a good head on his shoulders, at least. This way, at least I don't have to shy away from my own shadow.

I nod slowly. "It's probably the best idea."

"Well, then." He offers his hand; I shake it hesitantly and express my thanks. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, Miss Vane. If we're lucky, then we'll nip this thing in the bud. Even if he doesn't get caught, maybe seeing the heat on you will make him lose interest."

Maybe. Maybe not. I figure that Gordon has dealt with the Joker more than I have, knows more about how he operates. If he's going to expend resources trying to protect me, then I'll accept them with gratitude.


	4. Scorched

_And either way you turn, I'll be there_  
_Open up your skull, I'll be there_  
_Climbing up the walls_  
_- **Radiohead, Climbing up the Walls ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_v2rehPAf5Y))  
**_

Here's the thing about deadbolts: they only _really_ provide protection when you're already safely inside the apartment.

It's been a week since my meeting with Commissioner Gordon, and the police patrols have been working like a charm. Oh, I have no way of knowing if it actually keeps the madman from my door, but it certainly makes me feel better. Now, if I hear footsteps or notice a strange car following me—oh, it's just my friendly undercover cop. It took a few days, but I eventually quit flinching whenever I saw someone out of the corner of my eye.

I didn't see a cruiser on the street on my way up a minute ago, but it's not like it's there all the time, so I just figured they were taking a lap around the block.

And now, I'm standing in front of my slightly open door and reflecting on the benefits and failings of deadbolts. Because, you see, I'd gripped and twisted my doorknob a few seconds ago out of sheer force of habit despite knowing that I'd locked it on my way out. However, it had yielded easily to me, and the door had swung open a few inches.

And now I'm panicking.

 _Maybe I didn't lock it,_ I think desperately. _Maybe I just_ _ **thought**_ _I did. Maybe—_

"Em?"

He makes my name into a dark song, multiplying the single syllable and adding tone. I can't see him, but I can hear him, can hear the voice from inside my apartment, and as I freeze, he continues. "You're not thinking about _running,_ are you? Cause… I gotta tell you, Em, it's a bad idea. The fellas downstairs, they—they wouldn't like that. _So._ Save yourself the trouble and… _come on in._ "

 _The cruiser,_ I think dazedly. I wonder what happened to the police that were supposed to be nearby, worry that they've been taken out—I wouldn't put it past him to remove anything, any _one_ in his way.

I have to force myself to enter the apartment, and can only do so by reminding myself that I'm stuck either way—I have no doubt that there really are minions downstairs ready to bring me back up kicking and screaming, and while the idea of taking my chances isn't unappealing, my certainty that I'll fail combined with the feeling that the Joker won't appreciate it in the slightest convinces me to drag my feet over to the door.

Just before I push it open, what Gordon said catches up to me, and I reach up and button my shirt over the top of the camisole that's peeping out, taking it up to the very last button at my throat. I don't think Gordon's right about the Joker's interest in me, about it being sexual in the least, but I refuse to play the odds if I can possibly help it.

Sluggishly, I push the door open and force myself over the threshold. The apartment is dark, heightening my fear, and the smell of the gasoline is strong, nearly pitching me into a panic attack.

 _Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit._ He's doused the place and he's going to set it on fire with me inside. I bet he's not even really in here, I bet he just planted a recording—

"Shut the door, would ya?" The voice comes from my little kitchen, which I now notice is lit, the only illuminated room in the apartment. I see a shadow move and feel a pang of resulting relief. If he's here, then he won't torch the place. Not yet, anyway.

 _I never thought his presence would actually be a source of relief,_ I think as I reluctantly turn and close the door. At the sound, he calls out raspily again: "Come into the kitchen, Em. I could _use_ a hand."

 _What the hell is he doing in there?_ I wonder, and decide that I really don't want to know. It seems like I'm going to find out whether I want to or not, though, and robbed of my choices, I move into the kitchen, loathing every step.

The smell is even more potent in here. His back is to me; he's standing at the stove with a huge pot in front of him—not one of mine, I note. He turns, metal spoon in hand, and I realize that he's divested himself of his suit jacket and is wearing a white apron that says "Kiss the Cook" on the front in red. It'd be _funny_ if I wasn't so scared.

I swallow hard, trying to tamp down my fear and failing spectacularly. He cocks his head to the side and stares at me for a moment.

"Ya know, you don't talk much," he says suddenly.

I don't reply. Silence seems to be the safest option, inasmuch as anything can be safe when he's around. He purses his lips and then sucks his teeth, making a sharp, wet sound. "Well. If you aren't going to provide, ah, _conversation,_ then why don't you make yourself _useful_ and put on some coffee?"

For lack of anything else to do, I move to obey, stopping short as he adds a quick stipulation: "And, ah, keep it _simple,_ wouldjya? Don't get… clever."

 _I wasn't planning on it,_ I think. Not like I have anything with which to _get_ clever—most people in this city keep rat poison, but it makes me uneasy, having it around. The only thing remotely poisonous in my possession is an aerosol can of roach spray beneath the sink, and somehow I think he'd notice if I tried to sneak some of _that_ in.

He turns back to the pot, and as I go through the motions of making coffee, I can't resist peering over. It's on the stove, but the heat isn't on— _good thing, too,_ I think as he sloshes some more gasoline in. There's a flattened black bag on the floor, and he's got a number of canisters on the counter—a lot of them appear to be unlabeled, nondescript stainless steel capsules, but there's also an excess of… _is that frozen orange juice concentrate?_

I have no idea what he's making, but knowing him, it's not delicious and nutritious.

I suddenly remember the cruiser, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, "What happened to the cops?"

"Aaaaand she speaks," he marvels absently, gently adding one of the cans of frozen concentrate. He focuses on his work for a while, and just as I start to think he'll ignore the question, he picks up as though he'd never left off. "I take it you're… referring to your _pig friends_ outside? Ah, they're, um… they were called away. An explosion in Cathedral Square. Who'd'a thought?" His back is to me, so I can't see his face, but I hear him chuckle softly to himself.

I feel a confusing rush of both relief and horror. The knowledge that he didn't just plant bullets in their skulls as they sat outside of my building isn't quite so reassuring when combined with the knowledge that his latest explosion could have killed them _and_ any number of innocent civilians.

I watch him as he works. He's disregarded me, working at the pot single-mindedly, sleeves rolled up and attention focused on the product. I find myself grateful that he's paying attention—I really don't want this place to blow up, especially with me inside.

I finish with the coffee and rotate slowly, back against the counter. I don't feel like sitting down—if he comes at me, I want to be able to run uninhibited.

At length, he appears to finish. He turns around with a satisfied sigh, and, long fingers stretched out in rigid claws, he reaches behind his head and pulls off the apron, untangling the strings and then smoothing his rumpled hair as he casts it aside. He folds his arms over the lurid green vest, tilts his chin back, and observes me.

I fidget beneath his stare. The old fear is rising, accompanied, disconcertingly, by a new one. Initially (and still), I was afraid for my life, aware that its expected length decreased rapidly with every minute I spent around the man—but this new fear is different, a more potent, concentrated version of the old one.

I realize what I've been trying to avoid ever since I got here, and that's the fact that _his_ presence in _my_ apartment confirms my fears that he _does_ have a personal interest. Regardless of exactly what sort of interest it is, it's dangerous. Very, _very_ dangerous.

"You're _frowning,_ " he observes suddenly. I've been so focused on my fear that I've been taking the silence for granted. His abrupt observation demolishes that silence, and I jump a little. He notices and laughs, releasing a hyena-howl of mirth.

"Quiet, frowny, _jumpy,_ " he gasps, recovering. "Let loose, Em. What's happenin' in that _liiitle_ noggin of yours?"

Well, since he's asking…

"What are you doing here?"

"Ah, we're getting the obvious questions out of the way. Lllllove it," he purrs, and swings out an arm, making me cringe as the edge of his hand narrowly misses the edge of the pot. "I'm just mixin' up some toys."

"Cool _toys,_ " I say sarcastically. He shrugs modestly, choosing not to notice my tone. "Putting aside the fact that I'm sure you've got a neat little headquarters with a kitchen you can use to concoct—whatever that is—"

"Ah, _napalm_ ," he pronounces helpfully.

I blink. "Oh, right. Napalm. Yeah." _I'm gonna die_. "That doesn't explain why you decided to use _my_ apartment for your… work."

"Now, _there's_ a question," he sings out throatily. He pauses for a second, eyes tilting this way and that in theatrical contemplation. After a moment of this, he moves, and I start away from him again, but this time, he doesn't appear to notice. I force myself to remain still as he cuts the five foot distance between us in half, telling myself that he's a mean, mad dog—that he won't be able to resist a chase if I give him the opportunity for one.

He stops at the sink and nudges the water on, rinsing his hands thoroughly and meticulously. He shakes them dry, turns off the water, and then rests damp hands on either side of the sink, leaning into them, head bowed. Slowly, he turns to look at me. "Why… am I _here_ … with _you_?" he asks, slowly and emphatically.

My mouth has gone dry—maybe it's the proximity, I don't know. I want to stay calm and collected, to nod and say something like "That's the question," but I don't. I just freeze and stare at him stupidly.

He purses his lips. His arms tense up as he braces against them, then he pushes off the counter and rotates, standing slightly hunched, folding his arms and stretching his fingers out along the crook of his elbows, right at the edge of the rolled sleeves. "Well. Ya see… after our last, ah, _incendiary_ meeting… I think I figured somethin' ou _t_ about you. A kinda intriguing somethin'."

I swallow hard, feeling my throat working tightly. "What?" I ask lowly. I'm surprised to hear that my voice isn't nearly as shaky as it probably should be.

He rolls his fist up, covers his mouth, and clears his throat rumblingly and swiftly. "You're, ah—you're a _conundrum._ A problem. Most people in this city, you see—" He meets my eyes to make sure I'm following, and unconsciously, I nod, signaling for him to go on. _Why am I encouraging this?_ I demand of myself. I don't have an answer. I'm not sure. "They fall into _one_ of _two_ categories. Commonly, you've got your _survivors_ —now, that's a necessary skill in this city. Shove everyone else outta the way so you can continue to _live._ Ya know, they're the type to drive full-speed away from a wired _diner_ before the bombs go off, leaving _other_ hostages behind."

I wince. _Ouch._

"Then-uh, less common but cropping up _everywhere_ at the _most_ inconvenient of times," he continues, idly examining his curled fingers, frowning, and then buffing them ferociously on his lapel, "You've got… your heroes. They're the type to… draw a _crazy_ man's attention away from a cute li'l girl and onto themselves."

He closes his mouth, smacking his lips together and tilting his head towards me, rolling his eyes towards the brows to look meaningfully at me. It's not necessary; I get his point. He couldn't have beaten it into me more obviously with a hammer—but then, I definitely get the feeling that subtlety is not his strongest suit (or at least not the one he most prefers).

"Now," he continues casually, eyes rolling down to the corners as he searches his brain for his train of thought, "it's pretty easy to identify who's who, and the appropriate response seems pretty apparent each time—your survivors are _fun_ to kill, 'cause they're so desperate to _stay alive._ On the other hand, with _heroes…_ it's best to kill—" He jerks a hand around in midair, as though he's reached the edge of a vaguely mystifying idea, something abstract that he doesn't feel quite like tackling. "their _loved_ ones, or even just the folks they're _protecting._ It's all about a person's priorities."

I shudder convulsively. I can't help it; it's a knee-jerk reaction, the physical representation of my fear and guilt and disgust with regards to his everyday activities. He notices, of course, and waits with exaggerated patience for me to recover. "All you all right _?_ Wanna glass of water?" he inquires, and if the question had come from anyone else, the sarcasm would be impossible to detect. There's something in his manner, though—maybe the impression that this man builds, plants, and detonates bombs and considers it a _job_ —that would rot through and betray even his most perfect facsimile of patient kindness.

I cross my arms tightly around myself, cupping my palms around my elbows, and don't respond. He clicks his tongue, satisfied that I've dealt with my issue, and continues.

" _So._ As I was saying. With people, it's always easy to tell. Well, _almost_ always. Y'see, with _you…_ that clear line becomes very, very… _blurred._ " Every trace of forged smiles and phony kindness has vanished from his face. He stares at me, expressionless. "Gotta say, Em, I don't know quite what to _do_ with you. Sure, I could _kill_ you, but how do I know that'd be the most—ah, enter _taining_ course of action to take?"

My knees feel like they've turned to water. As if I needed a reminder of how dangerous he is.

He licks his lips. "What do you say we try to get the _true_ you to peep her head out for us? Let's call it…" His eyes crease in a squint; he bobs his head to the side indicatively, " _an_ _experiment_."

My eyes go wide and I shake my head. "No. What? _No!_ "

"Aw, what's _wrong?_ You don't like the idea of me, ah, poking and prodding you? Testing your… reflexes?" I'm silent, glancing rapidly from my feet to his face and back again. He crosses his arms triumphantly and tilts his hips against the counter at his back. "Lemme ask you something. _Hey._ Look at me, I'm talkin' to you."

I drag my eyes unwillingly up to his, preferring to keep him as happy as possible. Still, I really don't want to hear whatever idea he's been rolling around in his mind—it's sure to have been twisted and contaminated by whatever fever is boiling inside.

Satisfied by my attention, he preens for a moment. "I wanna know, Em… how does my being here make you _feel_? Especially taking into account the fact that, uh, I'm a _man_ … and you're a _tiiiiiny_ little woman."

My throat dries up instantly. I stare at him, trying to hide my horror—and, if what he said about my face is true, failing miserably.

He screws up his face and tilts his head towards me in another one of those false impressions of sympathy. "Must be pretty tough, huh? Adding on to that, wouldjya feel the same if _I_ was a lady and you were a man instead?"

I don't answer. I don't need to. Slowly, the mockery of an expression drops from his face, leaving a much more frightening void behind. Finally, he drawls, "Of _course_ not."

Abruptly, he jerks towards me, stopping himself before he's drawn more than a foot closer. I react, of course, though garnering a reaction is doubtless his purpose, but my fear grips me and overpowers my better judgment, sending my feet towards the door.

As I predicted, my movement gives the mad dog an irresistible target. With a few swift strides of his considerably longer legs, he catches me before I'm more than halfway down the narrow hallway leading to the exit. Bony fingers curl around my shoulder and wrench at it, arresting my progress. Another second and he flings me sideways at the wall. I collide with considerable force, banging my forehead with a thick _smack_ and suddenly seeing stars.

The blow renders me unwillingly and temporarily docile, which gives him the chance to hem me in. He grabs a wrist, jerks me around to face him, and then clasps my throat with his spare hand, steering me backwards into the wall once more, this time the right way around.

By now I've regained my sense, or some of it, and realize that too much movement now would be a bad thing. It would have the negative effect of bringing us physically closer together and giving him cause to tighten the rigidly caging fingers around my throat. Keeping this in mind, I go perfectly still and begin to try to puzzle out how to escape this.

He looms over me. Strictly speaking, we aren't _that_ close—he holds me almost at arm's length, his back practically pushed against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. His head is thrust forward, though, almost perpendicular to his shoulders and his face hovering close to mine. He flashes a grotesquely yellow grin at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes, which are clinical and calculating.

"There, there," he murmurs, letting go of my wrist and lifting his hand to smooth my mess of hair, tilting his head back attentively and carelessly flashing me a glimpse of the underside of his chin. It's bare of the paint that's smudged all over the rest of his face, soft but strongly cut, and I suddenly feel embarrassed and confused. It doesn't feel right, somehow—almost like I've seen him naked—and yet this is evidence of his humanity, and isn't that desirable?

 _Not really._ I find myself preferring to think of him as an inhuman bogeyman. If he's human, it's all too close to home, and the paranoid shut-in idea looks a lot more appealing.

Then again, even if he _is_ a bogeyman, he's a bogeyman with at least one eye on me. I can't say that's much more comforting, and _clearly,_ my home is not the best hiding place.

His head lowers again, his hand drifts down to my face, and I flinch and turn my head instinctively. He seizes my chin between forefinger and thumb and jerks my face back around, directly across from his.

"Just an experiment," he says, eyes suddenly looking wide and wet in spurious soulfulness. His hand leaves my face for his pocket, then whips back up, and I hear the click and see the gleam of steel as he ticks it back and forth in front of my eyes. I swallow hard.

"Wanna see who you _are,_ " he says matter-of-factly. I keep my eyes on the blade.

"I could tell you," I say softly. "You don't have to—" The hand at my throat moves up swiftly, clamping instead over my mouth and cutting me off.

"Naaaaaaaaw, no, no, no, _no,_ " he murmurs absently. "You can't tell cause you don't know. _Nobody_ knows. That's where this little shiny comes in handy—" and as he speaks, he gently scrapes the edge down my cheek.

I'm paralyzed with fear as he trails lower, down my jaw and the line of my throat, and rests the blade on the collar of my shirt, right above the top button.

He meets my eyes. "Ya know what most people associate with _living_?"

I can't say a word. I thought that with the knife out of my field of vision I would calm down, but I hadn't considered the idea that _not_ being able to see it would be much worse. I feel my pulse throbbing rapidly at my throat, and I can't help but wonder how close the blade is to the delicate veins there.

"Hmm? No ideas? ...how about _sex_?" The way he says the word makes it a filthy one—not lecherous in the slightest, but something different, something… foul.

I feel the knife flick at my shirt, and my top button clicks to the floor. I exhale shakily through his fingers. "Me, _I_ don't think so, but you know, people are interesting that way. They prize that-uh… _sexuality_ almost as highly as their _lives_. _Violate_ it—" The knife tears cleanly through thread and sends another button clattering to the floor. "And people see it as a little version of _death_. Aaaand… since I don't wanna _kill_ you just yet…"

With a clean sweep, he severs the rest of the buttons. I squeeze my eyes shut and fiercely resist the heavy swell of panic that insists that I fight him. After all, it's a big knife, and as repulsed as I am by his touch, I do not want to die, and so I hold unwillingly still.

Impatiently, he flicks the sides of the ruined shirt apart, baring the camisole underneath. _At least there's that,_ I think, and then: _please don't let him cut it off me._

For the moment, he seems content, bringing the knife up to the comparatively lower neckline and running the blade back and forth along it. The knife is sharp, but he handles it delicately, not quite cutting the skin as he draws the blade along.

His hand slips away from my mouth and comes down to rest at the base of my neck, the heel resting on my shoulder. "Hmm," he says evenly, "would you look at that. A couple of missing buttons, and yer pulse is movin' like someone pulled a _gun_ on you."

"The knife isn't exactly help—" I start, but his hand snaps up and delivers a light but stinging slap to my face, cutting me off.

"Shh," he says reprovingly, frowning. "You're clouding the results."

I try not to glower at him, but it's tough. I hate him for what he's doing, for what he's _done._ The hatred is simmering up and threatening to choke out the fear. I push it down with difficulty.

My breath has quickened, fear and anger and adrenaline sending my heart through the roof. His, on the other hand, is perfectly steady. His lids are half-shut and thoughtful, and after a moment, he says, "Hey. I wonder what happens if I do _this._ "

His hand slips off my neck, runs down my side all the way down to my knee, and then flips and clamps harshly over my leg. Pressing his fingertips hard against the inside seam of my pants, he slides his hand roughly _upwards_.

I'm wearing jeans, so the contact isn't direct, but the panic floods me anyway, along with a double-dose of rage. I force myself to hold still as his hand moves, weakly aware of the knife at my neckline, but after a mere second or two more, his fingers get just a little too close and the venomous cocktail forming in my brain boils over.

I give a half-muffled battle cry and swing my fist directly into his stomach. He reels back as I make contact, the hand falling away as he grunts deeply, and I feel the sting of the knife scoring the skin at my breastbone as I twist out from his hold. He's laughing with difficulty now as he struggles upright, breath coming short, and he blocks my path to the door, so I beat a quick retreat to the kitchen, where I might at least be able to keep some distance between us.

I check my collarbone as I stumble back into the room. The cut is shallow, but a slow, steady trickle of blood is darkening the neckline of the white camisole, and I press my hand to the wound and dart for the section of the counter that holds my knife set, drawing the butcher's knife out and flipping around, ready to defend myself if necessary. The Joker comes lurching in behind me, catching himself on the doorframe and leaving his arms extended, braced against the door as he pants. It looks like I've done a fair job of winding him.

He takes a second as I back up against the sink, keeping a close eye on him and gripping the knife tightly at my hip. After a moment, his quick breath ceases entirely, and there's a second or two of complete silence before he shakes his hair out of his face, tilts his head back, and asks, "You don't really like _science,_ do you, Em?"

"Not when it involves you _molesting_ me," I say shakily, my anger and fear driving me, making me brave, at least for now.

"Ya know, you could really hurt a guy's _feelings_ —"

"How did you know my name?" I demand impatiently. _If I'm already bleeding, I may as well try to get some answers. He said it himself—he doesn't want to kill me yet._ Even with that semi-assurance, I wouldn't bet on my odds for survival, but hell, he _said_ it.

He purses his lips and then draws them back wetly against his teeth. "When you _do_ talk, you ask a lot of questions," he observes.

"The first day I met you, you called me Em. You had no way of knowing that my name is Emma. How did you know?"

I can see his tongue moving behind his lips, probing at his teeth, and then he enters the kitchen and pulls out the first drawer he reaches. He rummages through the silverware he finds there, then rips the drawer off the track and turns it over. He kicks through the mess on the ground, fails to find what he's looking for, and drops the drawer, moving on to the next one.

The second time is apparently the charm. He emerges from this drawer with a Sharpie Magnum, dumps the drawer despite having found what he wanted, and then crosses the kitchen, uncapping the marker and using the big white fridge as a canvas (it's bare of magnets or anything decorative, and I'm rather glad—doubtless if they were there, they'd be dashed to the ground as well) and using the wide side of the marker, he sketches a big 'M' on the lower, larger side, going back over it to make it bolder. Finished, he tosses the marker aside and looks at me, settling his arms across his chest.

 _M. Em. Ohh._ I feel my brow furrow. "That still makes no sense whatsoever. I mean, what does 'M' _stand_ for?"

"It doesn't stand for _anything,_ " he says calmly, leaning a shoulder against the fridge and indicating his artwork with a brief tilt of the head. "I told you when I metchya—you look like an M."

I shook my head. "I don't buy it. I don't think I believe in coincidences anymore."

"Neither do I. It's a bad habit. We're getting _way_ off-subject," he announces. "Would you put down the knife? It's a _tad_ distracting."

I look warily at him. I definitely feel more comfortable armed, but not by much—would I really stab him? More importantly, _could_ I? I wouldn't put it past him to ignore injury and wrest the knife away from me. Still, I don't plan on just dropping it because he's asked. "Promise you're not going to pull a stunt like that again."

"That cut's lookin' nasty. You probably should clean up."

I gesture threateningly at him with the blade. "Promise."

He rolls his eyes, lifts a fluid hand, and exaggeratedly crosses his heart. I stare for a second, then realize that's the best I'm going to get. I put the knife on the counter and turn to the sink, running the water and finding a cloth to dampen. I gingerly dab at the wound, cleaning blood from the skin around the cut and checking over my shoulder to make sure he's staying put. He's glancing around the kitchen, apparently lost in thought, so I finish up, squeeze out the excess water, and then press the damp cloth against the cut and turn back to him.

"Now that you're behaving, ah, _civilly_ again…" I snort skeptically—as if civility had ever marked our acquaintance. He points threateningly at me. "Don't get cocky," he warns.

"Sorry." The apology is unthinking and instinctive, and I immediately regret it, but it seems to satisfy him.

"D'ya wanna know what I'm thinkin' about you?" He raises his eyebrows and presses his lips together, like a father playfully taunting his child, holding a sweet just out of reach. I regard him warily.

" _Do_ I?" Now that the struggle has passed and my anger's receding, I can feel the weight of tension on me, the understanding that the sex factor is real and alive and right there in the room with us, the subtle threat he poses just by being a man hiding there beneath the far more ostentatious threats that accompany him everywhere. I'm terrified that he'll address it again, and I oh-so-casually set my free hand on the counter next to the handle of the knife.

"Lllllllets look at that—uh, what'd you call it? _Molestation_ , right—and let's pretend that the achievement of such would signify _murder_. And let's look at your reaction. Ya hold still. Don't offend. Don't threaten. Don't do anything to _encourage_ it—ahh, until you're lookin' over the edge, and a _grand finale_ seems inevitable." He gestures towards me emphatically with the same hand he used to swear he wouldn't come after me again. "And that's when you fight. When I've gotchya in a corner, and you have no other choice… that's when you fight."

I shrug uncomfortably. I have no idea where he's going with this.

"So, that survivor reflex—it's nice 'n strong. I… wonder," he says idly. "How does your, uh… _hero_ side shape up in comparison?"

He lets the question hang there between us, stifling, and I suddenly feel lightheaded—or maybe that's the gasoline fumes. _What does he mean?_

He deliberately steps over to the neglected napalm and starts dividing it up between the steel canisters on the counter. I step forward, hand slipping off the counter, and in the relative silence, I ask, "Why haven't you killed me yet?"

"Well," he says after a pregnant pause, speaking the word lightly and softly, "you're _fun._ And I prefer to keep the _fun_ ones alive for a little while. So that oughta make the survivor in you _happy_."

_If that's true, then why am I not glad to hear it?_

I can only imagine what's happening in his head. If that's his idea of testing my survivor reflexes or whatever the hell he called it… well. The mind doesn't have to leap too far to start coming up with methods by which he'll try to draw out the hero.

As stress has a tendency to do, it all sneaks up on me at once. The adrenaline abandons me far more suddenly than I'd have it, and there's a strain in my shoulders and a weariness laying heavily on my mind. I feel my eyes watering, though the normal choking and sniffling that comes with crying is absent, making me wonder if it's not just a belated reaction to the strong gasoline fumes wafting through the apartment rather than a display of emotion.

"Leave me alone."

It comes out a lot more quavery than I planned, sounding way more like a question than a mandate. It's the first request of its kind—oh, I'd asked him to cut his behavior out before, but this time, I'm asking him to _stop,_ stop it all completely, and I think he can tell. I thought it was a waste of breath to ask this before, but now… now, I'm so tired, and so scared and my imagination is running rampant with ideas about what he could mean, what he could be planning—I just want it to stop.

He turns his head slowly, glancing at me askance, the black of his eyes nearly disappearing into the corners and giving near total way to bloodshot sclerae. I can't tell if the look is contemptuous or thoughtful, both or neither. All I know is that he stares at me like that, out of the corner of his eye, for a long time, and I'm just starting to think he might actually be considering it before he clicks his tongue sharply and continues working.

"Awwww, but we've already gotten _started,_ " he whines mockingly. "Aren't you curious to see how this _fascinating_ little study turns out?"

"Not at all," I say weakly, but he's not paying attention to me anymore. I give up, feeling too drained to push the matter and possibly suffer injury as a result, and within moments he's filled the last canister and screwed the lid on. He lifts the big black bag from the floor and starts shoveling the canisters in, finishes quickly, and then hoists the bag over his shoulder.

"You don't mind getting rid of _that_ for me, do you, there's a doll," he says, waving a hand towards the pot.

 _What the hell am I supposed to do with napalm?_ I think, bewildered, but hope springs up in my chest—he might be _leaving,_ and this makes me _very_ happy.

He turns and starts to swagger out, but at the doorway seems to have second thoughts and turns. _Oh shit,_ I think as he turns and comes at me, and I stumble backwards, groping on the counter for the knife handle, but before I can seize it, he's upon me, fingers curled around my chin and forcing my head up— _too far;_ I'm standing on tiptoe to accommodate the pressure on my jaw.

He tilts his own head back again, looking at me from the very depths of his black eyes, yellowed teeth bared and clenched shut in a thoughtful grimace. I whimper a little—his grip is harder than it was before, and I can feel each finger acutely, can actually _feel_ the damage being done to my blood vessels.

"Stop _worrying._ You think it'll fix your problems, but it _won't,_ " he advises me.

"I'll keep that in mind," I growl through gritted teeth, fumbling for the knife. He leans closer as his hand lands crushingly hard on mine, and I give a half-cry, half-groan as I hear my fingers pop beneath the heel of his hand—probably just cracked knuckles, but painful just the same.

"And quit being so _rude,_ " he chastises me, curling his fingers around my hand and squeezing reprovingly. I wince, screwing my eyes shut—he's stronger than I am; the grip is painful, but all at once, it's gone and so is his hand at my chin. I open my eyes to see his retreating back.

I collapse back against the counter as he rounds the corner and leaves. _Now_ my hand lands on the knife handle, and I snort wryly in my relief. _Figures_.

I wait for the sound of the closing door before I relax even slightly. The smell of gasoline has bonded itself to my hair and clothes, I swear; I'll never get it out of this place—and there's the question of napalm and how to transport it, what to do with it. I don't know these things.

I'm not going to bother with the police this time around. After a second spent collecting my wits, I wearily push myself off of the counter.

_I guess I'd better search the place for bombs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The method described here is not, I repeat not, how you make napalm. I thought it would be appropriate to steal the [inaccurate] recipe Tyler Durden offered up in Fight Club given the parallels between him and the Joker, but no, I'm not giving out tips on how to really make jellied gasoline. If you must know, Google it- but if you want to keep all of your fingers, I wouldn't recommend testing anything you find.


	5. Straitjacket

_I keep the wolf from the door, but he calls me up—_  
_Calls me on the phone, tells me all the ways he's gonna mess me up…_  
_**-Radiohead, A Wolf at the Door (It Girl. Rag Doll) ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvBPCm25z4I))** _

After roughly five minutes spent tearing apart my kitchen in search of suspicious-looking devices, I realize how totally and completely irrational this course of action is.

Fear has been driving me up to this point, fear and a blind need to _do_ something to remind myself that I'm still alive and relatively unharmed, but as I finally take a moment to catch my breath, resting against the countertop, having just emptied out my last kitchen cabinet, reason slowly creeps back into the picture.

First, he's made it pretty clear at this point—repeatedly, in fact—that he doesn't want to kill me ( _yet_ , there's always that sharply-implied subtext of _he doesn't want to kill me_ _ **yet**_ in our conversations). While I'd hardly put it past him to decide, completely arbitrarily, that he's tired of this game and may as well put an end to it now, I don't think that's his _plan_. Bombs require planning, some forethought. Ergo, the odds are good that there are no explosives in my apartment.

Napalm, though, there's plenty of that, and I don't even know how to _begin_ trying to dispose of it.

Panic, my new best friend, swoops back in. _What am I going to do about this? The cops will be coming back around soon; if they don't see me they'll get suspicious and come upstairs and see_ _ **this**_ _. How am I supposed to make them believe that I had nothing to do with making this shit when none of them saw the Joker coming or going?_ They're already suspicious of me. The napalm might just get me arrested.

Dizzyingly quick, reason returns, and I straighten up as I realize that the only thing I can do to regain even the smallest bit of control over my own life is to leave.

I lift my head, staring distantly out of the kitchen window, which faces the dull brick wall of the neighboring apartment complex. It is suddenly very clear to me that if I simply leave the Joker's hunting ground, the only place in the world where any of this craziness has ever been a threat to me, then I might actually make it out of this alive.

 _Nothing that I have here is worth continuing to risk my life for. So fuck my scholarship, fuck my apartment, fuck the police, and fuck the Joker,_ I think, and sharply I push myself away from the countertop and walk quickly through my dark apartment, going to my bedroom. I click on the light in the adjoining closet of a bathroom and then stoop down, opening the cabinet under the sink. I wrench my first aid kit out and spill its contents all over the floor, not overly concerned with trying to be neat—I'm leaving this place anyway; why the hell should I waste precious minutes cleaning up after myself?

I find some surgical scissors, a roll of gauze, and some medical tape, and I cut myself several strips of gauze, padding them together to make a bandage and then taping them over the cut on my collarbone, which might be light, but is still bleeding. I'll clean it later. Right now, my priority is getting out of here as quickly as I can, before the police or the Joker catch wind of my intentions and take measures to stop me.

After tending to the shallow wound, I get up, leaving the first aid where it has fallen, and return to my bedroom. I strip off my camisole, ignoring the rise of goosebumps on my vulnerable arms and stomach, the creeping thought that perhaps the Joker isn't truly gone, that he's just waiting for an opportune moment to pounce and conduct some more _experiments—_

 _Stop it, Emma_ , I think harshly to myself, and I blindly reach into my closet for the first article of clothing I can find. I come up with a band shirt for the Misfits, and only after I put it on do I realize—the design of their trademark skull varies this time from the normal white-on-black, with the usual colors inverted and the mouth bright, ghastly red. _Someone up there has a sick sense of humor._

Still, I deliberately leave it on, because to remove it would be giving too much credence to the association. I'm not suicidal, though, so I pull a black hoodie from a hanger and zip it up over the shirt, covering the inflammatory logo and pulling the hood up over my head. I get my keys and my wallet. I leave everything else (everything of truly sentimental value is in Nebraska, anyway) and get the hell out of the apartment.

The wave of cold, fresh air is unbelievably sweet after being trapped in a closed space inhaling gasoline fumes for the last half-hour, and I breathe deeply as I run down the stairs, trying to purge the smell and taste of it, trying to ignore the fact that it's still clinging to me. I locate my car, parked innocently on the street, and I casually look around as I approach to see if I can spot any clowns or cops before skirting around to the driver's side.

It strikes me right after I've climbed into the driver's seat and am turning the key in the ignition that the Joker may have seen fit to place a car bomb in the undercarriage, but my hands are moving automatically and it's too late to stop and check. I wince and shut my eyes as the key twists, awaiting the fire.

Nothing. Just the rattling sound of my engine turning over and growling to life. I crack an eye open, realize that I'm definitely still alive, and exhale all in a rush. Then, I'm putting the car in drive, checking quickly to make sure the road's clear and double-checking to make absolutely _sure_ there are no clowns nearby. Once I'm certain the path is safe, I pull out and start the journey home, away from all this craziness.

To my credit, I manage to cover about half the distance between my apartment complex and the city limits before red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror. For a second, I experience the sharp lift of a years-old panic, the panic most people experience when they see that flash in their mirrors, and even as it fades, I marvel at how… surprisingly _good_ familiarity feels. Even if it's just more fear, it's _familiar_ fear, as opposed to the totally unprecedented and unpredictable terror that seems to follow the Joker around, to infect every room he's in and everyone in it (everyone, of course, but him. I don't think he _can_ feel fear).

I don't curse. _You knew this was a possibility_ , I remind myself, and, strangely calm, I pull over into a parking lot edging the road, come to a stop, and wait. _I'm going to get dizzy with all these mood swings_ , I think, but the numb calm must be my body's response to all of the excitement—my right brain must be as burned out as the rest of me at this point.

The cop gets out of his car and there's something familiar about him, I think, but I don't want to risk rolling down my window and sticking my head out to get a better look at him. He approaches cautiously and taps on my window, and I roll it down, letting in the gust of freezing air with a sort of absent-minded resignation.

The cop leans down to look at me, and I realize that it's the young cop I met just a week ago, the one who brought me coffee—"Eli," I blurt, surprised. For some reason, I'd gotten the impression that he was one of the police that worked mostly at the station, in admin, answering phones, doing paperwork, stuff like that. Maybe it was the fact that he'd seemed bored enough to take an interest in a weary, hostile bombing suspect. But no, here he is in front of my eyes, definitely away from the station.

He nods just a little in acknowledgement of his name, but he raises his eyebrows skeptically all the same. "You going somewhere, Emma?"

I can't seem to resist the instinct that tells me to lie. "Study session."

"Uh. Studying—in the Palisades?"

"Girl who's hosting it is loaded."

"Hm," he says, and his nose wrinkles a little. "Something smells like gasoline."

"I… was just fueling up and I wasn't careful; it spilled all over my shoes."

I see his eyes twitch towards my dashboard and I feel the sudden urge to cover the display, but he's already seen it, and there's no hiding the fact that my fuel gauge is sitting perkily at the ¼ tank indicator.

"You… put a quarter-tank in your car?"

"Prices are crazy," I babble. "I just needed enough to get—"

"Emma," he says, speaking softly and gently. It's the gentleness that gets me. If he'd been brusque or even accusatory, I think I could probably pull it together, lie my way out of it, but the expression of sympathy, _genuine_ sympathy instead of horrible farce of it the Joker likes to put on, seems to zap my emotions back into play. I choke on my words and stop speaking immediately, lest I betray myself further with a cracking voice. "Emma," Eli says again, "What's going on?"

And suddenly, the curious control I've had over myself since the Joker left me alone in my apartment cracks, then shatters into a thousand little pieces. As I start pouring out the entire story, everything from the Sharpie "M" on my fridge to the torn shirt and the Joker's little _experiment_ , it's like I'm outside of myself, watching myself talk, an entirely separate presence.

Eli looks shocked and tries to interrupt once or twice, but it's though I've been possessed, and I don't allow him to break in. He falls silent and lets me finish my narrative, and when I finally start to wind down, his jaw takes on a grim set.

He's silent for a few seconds after I finish, and I sit in my now-freezing car, shivering. After another moment, though, he nods. "Okay. Show me."

"Sh—show you?"

"I want to go to your apartment, do a really fast, basic check to confirm your story—just procedure, you understand—and if everything lines up, I think we can get you into protective custody."

I blink. "You… believe me?"

"I believe you, and what's more, I don't want you trying to do this on your own. Alone, you face a much bigger risk of him coming to hunt you down anyway, but with the GPD behind you…"

I turn my head away, staring at my steering wheel. I guess I've gotten so used to the shit-storm my life has turned into that I'm just completely shocked that anyone might actually want to help me, and I have absolutely no idea how to respond to it. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to require any expressions of happiness or babbling gratitude. He taps my door and straightens up. "Come on. I'll lead the way. You just follow close to me and don't let anyone get between us. You don't have to be scared."

I nod, flexing my hands on my steering wheel, and he looks at me for another second before returning to his car. I roll the window back up automatically and wait for him, and after a second, the lights go on, the siren starts to wail, and he pulls around me. I put my car into gear and follow him home.

Gotham traffic is a lot less troublesome when you've got a police escort. Without having to bother with all the other cars and wait for stoplights to change, it takes us a mere ten minutes of driving before we're back at my apartment.

There's another police car in front of my apartment building, and I can't help but feel reassured as I climb out of my car. He must be backup. Eli gets out and comes straight to me, reaching out and resting his hand between my shoulders, not invading my space but adopting a clearly protective stance, and I'm too grateful for an ally of any sort to feign resentment or pretend as if I'm not in need of help. I'm tired of fighting this on my own.

We go inside and slowly, grimly climb the stairs to my apartment, followed by the other cop. My first clue that something's wrong comes when I try to open the door and find it locked.

"Eli," I say.

"What?"

"I didn't lock this when I left."

"You—?"

"I didn't lock it. Someone—" My voice breaks, and I clear my throat before continuing. "I think… someone may be inside."

Understanding dawns on his face. He lifts his hand from my back and touches me on the shoulder to indicate that I should step back. "Rodriguez," he says to his fellow cop, drawing his gun with his free hand, "let's go. Emma, you got keys?"

"I—" I soundlessly hold out my key ring, indicating the proper keys, and, holding his gun at the ready, he swiftly unlocks the door and slips inside, Rodriguez behind him.

I press my back against the wall and listen hard, not wanting to hear the inevitable chaos but unable to stop myself. I listen—and listen… and listen, but there's… nothing. Nothing but the sounds of the men yelling " _Clear_ " to one another as they search the apartment for intruders, apparently finding none.

There's a long stretch of silence, and then Eli calls out, sounding strained. "Emma? Come here, please."

 _That's it,_ I think. _He's got them in there, he's got them at gunpoint. This is how he's going to test my 'heroism'—please, God, not twice in one day, please, I don't think I can take it—_ but I gather my courage anyway, breathe deeply, and go inside again, loathing every forced step.

I immediately realize two things. First, my apartment is freezing, and second, the smell of gasoline, though not entirely gone, has faded a _lot_. I swallow convulsively as I see that every single one of my windows is open.

I find Eli and Rodriguez in the kitchen. The pot from earlier is completely gone, as is the napalm it contained and the 'M' that the Joker had drawn on my refrigerator in permanent marker. I look around, completely bewildered, as Eli says gently, "There's no one here, Emma—there's… there's _nothing_ here."

The terrible suspicion finally rushes in all at once, and I can feel the look of horror crossing my face as I look at him. Struggling to keep my voice from rising in a hysterical shriek, I force myself to say, "He was _here_ , Eli. He was _right here_. You smell it, right? You can smell the gasoline? You—did you look for blood? I don't know if any got on the floor, but—"

Eli clears his throat and turns abruptly to the other cop. "Hey, man, can you step outside? Maybe ask the neighbors if they heard or saw anything suspicious? I won't be long." Rodriguez grunts and brushes past me on his way out.

I'm silent in a sort of numb horror, crossing my arms over my chest, and when Eli looks at me again, that careful look, the one that says _mustn't trigger a mental breakdown_ , I choke out a sob. "He was here. He was right here."

"Emma," he says, and the gentle tone of voice that had won me over so thoroughly earlier now grates on my shot nerves, "the door was securely locked, and there was no sign of forced entry. There's no napalm, no mark on the refrigerator, and no sign that he was ever here, so I need you to consider that… you've been under a lot of stress in the last month. Waking nightmares are not unusual in this kind of situation—I'm really surprised you haven't had problems before—"

" _IT WAS NOT A NIGHTMARE_!" I shriek, finally losing the battle for self-control. I unzip my hoodie abruptly, seize the collar of my shirt, and pull it down away from my clavicle, peeling the gauze away and exposing the fresh cut. " _Did I dream this?_ _ **Did**_ _ **I**_?"

His eyes land on the cut, but they keep moving down, taking in the t-shirt and that stupid logo, and he lifts his hands slowly, as if trying to ward off the perceived crazy in the room. "Emma, I just want you to _consider_ the possibility that… he was never really here."

The rage doesn't leave, but it shifts forms fluidly. Now, instead of shouting at him, I feel cold, lethal. I leave the cut exposed for a few more seconds, staring pointedly at him, before letting my shirt collar go and dropping my hands. "So, what? I did it to myself?"

"I'm going to talk to someone," he says, carefully avoiding answering my question. "I want to see about getting you an appointment with a… a psychiatrist, maybe. And I might still be able to get you into protective cus—"

"Oh, forget it," I snap. "It's not as if you could have ever _really_ protected me, anyway." My energy suddenly drains away completely, and I drop to the floor, sliding down against the counters and coming to rest with a bump. "If he wants to toy with me, Gotham's whole police force couldn't stop him."

Eli is actually wringing his hands. He looks totally miserable. "Look, if you want me to take you down to the station—" I turn my head and glare at him, and he clears his throat. "I mean—if you're more comfortable in your own home… then I'll just ask the neighbors to look in on you. But, um, you can't leave town. It would be—irresponsible."

"Just… stop," I say, and I'm frightened by how dead and croaky I sound all of a sudden. "I'm not going to run. I wouldn't get far anyway. And I'm not going to off myself." I chuckle suddenly. "That would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

He looks unsure, but he also looks like he'd give anything to get away from me right now. Frankly, _I_ don't want _him_ around, either. The relief I felt at having an ally has completely vanished with the realization that alliances are totally useless. "Go on, Eli," I say tiredly. "I'm just… I just want to go to bed."

"Okay," he says finally. "I'm—expect a call tomorrow, all right? I'm gonna talk to some people."

"Yay," I say softly. Eli still looks torn, but after a second he gives a short nod, straightens up, and stalks out of the room.

I listen to the sound of the door closing quietly behind him. I know I should get up and lock the door again, close the windows, but I can't seem to muster up the energy. I can't convince myself that I'll be any safer or any more comfortable if I do. Instead, I sit on the floor until darkness starts creeping in through the windows.

Then, naturally, I decide that the only option immediately available to me is to get completely wasted.

I don't really drink—I don't really do much of anything that could be considered "partying," for that matter, but thus far, every attempt I've made to drag myself out of this situation (which only seems to be pulling me down deeper every day) has ended in utter defeat. If I can't escape this city and its resident Lucifer _physically_ , then maybe I can at least give my poor mind a break by flooding it with alcohol and relieving it of its burden, for one night, at least. And really, I'd be kidding myself if I thought staying sober would give me any sort of advantage. If the Joker wants to hurt me or kill me, it's going to happen regardless of my level of sobriety. So why not?

Earlier when I was tearing the kitchen apart, I found a handle of gin and a couple of small bottles of tonic left behind by my first boyfriend in the city, long since an ex, and I get up now, stretching muscles sore from being cramped in one position for too long, and go find them. I don't even _like_ gin, but I don't want to leave the apartment. It'll do for now.

I find everything I need to throw together some makeshift gin and tonics—no limes, but I have a bottle of lime juice I use to add some flavor to my drinking water from time to time. I pour the drinks strong and I drink them fast, grimacing past the bitterness and the tang—I tend to like my drinks a little sweeter, but again, in a pinch…

As I drink, I think, though it's amazing how even just a few sips of a strong cocktail will slow you down. He must have doubled back inside as soon as I left (or at least sent some men in to do it for him). They must have known the cops wouldn't let me get very far, and they must have also known that they would want to investigate my story, so removing anything I could use to support my testimony would just… isolate me more, discredit me. It's my punishment for trying to fight back. They must have cleaned up the refrigerator, gotten rid of all the other incriminating evidence, opened the windows, and locked the—

I close my eyes. If the door was locked but the apartment was empty, then they almost certainly locked it from the outside. This combined with the fact that it was unlocked and undamaged earlier when I came home to find the Joker in my kitchen indicates strongly that he has a key to my apartment.

It's a distressing thought, but the alcohol is taking effect, and I don't care as much as I might if I were fully sober. I look at my half-full glass, nod approvingly at it— _good for you, you're doing your job—_ then grab the bottle of gin by the neck and take it with me into my bedroom.

I flop backwards onto my bed, sloshing some of the liquid out of my glass, and then, determined not to waste perfectly good alcohol by spilling it all over my sheets, I sit halfway up and chug the rest of the contents down with a grimace. Finally, the tension in my shoulders and neck is going away after what feels like _months_ , and I feel warm even in my cold apartment. It's… nice.

Or it would be, if not for that beeping.

 _What the fuck_ _**is** _ _that?_

My eyes, which have drifted shut in response to the comfortably warm feeling burning down through my chest into my stomach, shoot open again as I realize that the Joker must have left… something… here, and in my hazy state, I think that if I can find it, I can show it to the cops to prove I was right.

"Not that it'll help," I grumble, almost without thinking, as I drop from the bed onto my hands and knees, following the sound down to the ground. The beeping gets louder as I laboriously lower myself belly-down to the floor and look under my bed.

A little device is there, lit up brightly and emitting that annoying beeping sound. Alcohol making me incautious, I reach for it and drag it out. Further examination proves it's a cell phone, a blocky little Nokia—some part of my hazy mind recognizes it as the sort that drug dealers use, _burners_ , they call them, since no one looking for a cell phone is going to pay quality money for this dense, antiquated little thing.

The screen is lit up, and the display reads 'Unknown Number.' Cautiously, not quite sure what to expect, I press 'accept' and slowly lift the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Hel- _lo_ , Em," purrs the creaky, now-familiar voice.

The alcohol doesn't kill the fear, but it makes it more sluggish. Instinct tells me to pitch the phone out of the open window, to get the machine transmitting that evil voice to me as far away from me as possible, but I can't seem to make myself react in time, and he blitzes forward: "Ya know, I wasn't sure if you would pick up."

"The internet says you once made a bomb out of a cell phone," I tell him automatically, not really thinking about what I'm saying.

"It does, huh?" He chuckles low, and I imagine I can feel the vibrations from his laughter coursing unpleasantly through my body. The warm fuzziness from the alcohol now seems less pleasant, more stifling. "Then, uh, I'm even _more_ surprised that we're having this conversation."

"I didn't think about it till just now," I say. "But—um—why _are_ we having this conversation?" Damn, I'm almost as bad at spitting out unfiltered questions when I'm drunk as I am when I'm terrified. Would it have made a difference if I'd been able to curb my questions to him from the start? Would he have taken this bizarre fucking interest?

 _Probably not, and then you'd be dead_ , I remind myself.

The Joker just hums. There's a strange rattling sound coming from his end of the phone, as if the connection's bad or as if he's simply moving around a lot, but he doesn't seem to be breathing hard. "Oh, I just wanted to make sure you were still _in town,_ and seeing as swinging by for another _visit_ would probably undo all my hard work… we've still got a _lot_ to do, Em, and—uh, I was worrie _d_. Heard you took a little day trip."

I snort, and I'm immediately appalled at myself. The second of curious silence on his end makes me hurry to remedy the situation—even though I know he's not _here_ , his voice in my ear makes it hard to shake off the threat of his physical presence, and I react with the according attempt to be respectful. "I, uh—yeah. Cops didn't let me get very far, though."

He tsks and hums in mock-disappointment. "Well, you tried," he says in a pitch-perfect imitation of a soccer mom's rallying, cajoling tone—again, if it wasn't him, it would be funny—"and that's all that matters."

 _Oh, hell. It_ _ **is**_ _funny._ I don't know it's the alcohol, the total loss of control of my life, or the fact that the world's current most famous domestic terrorist is on the other end of the line spouting sarcastic platitudes at me, but I can't help it. I laugh wearily.

The Joker crows in my ear. " _There_ you go! I was starting to wonder if you _could_ laugh, Em. What am I always telling ya?"

"Umm," I say, sitting up and reaching onto my bed for the gin bottle. "Stop worrying?"

" _Thaaaaat's_ it," he sings, sounding savagely gleeful. "I didn't think you were listening."

Finally, I think I'm starting to get over the shock of hearing his voice unexpectedly when the man himself is nowhere nearby. I'm not _comfortable,_ per se, especially since just hanging up and abandoning the conversation he _obviously_ wants is not an option, but I'm more comfortable than I would be with him actually here _._

The alcohol helps. Speaking of…

I fumble for my glass, set it upright on the bed, and pour myself some gin, neat, grimacing at the glass. As I do this, I say (in a sarcastic tone that I'm immediately aware I'll probably live to regret, but I'm already too drunk to pull it back), "So to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call? Are we going to stay up late and talk about boys?"

The sound he makes in response to the insolent question takes me off-guard. It's sudden, rough, and violent, and in my slightly dazed state, I can't help but think of it as a warning bark. It's painfully loud, but by the time I can do more than wince away from the speaker, it's over. If his object was to get my attention, it certainly worked—I've all but forgotten the glass in my hand and am riveted to the phone, waiting for some exposition that might tell me what the hell _that_ was.

He segues perfectly into speech, as if he had never uttered that animalistic snarl to begin with. "That's twice in one _day_ , Em. You're gettin' a liiiiittle too big for your britches. Wanna see what happens if you go for three?"

I say nothing because I'm scared, and he says nothing because he _knows_ I'm scared and the longer he lets the silence stretch, the more miserable I get. For a long span of seconds, there's no sound between us but the strange crackling from his side, then, slowly, pointedly, he says, "I… thought no _t_. You can take that drink now."

I don't even bother to tell myself that he's playing a hunch, making a lucky guess. No, between the keys and the fact that police don't seem to deter him from doing whatever the hell he wants, I think it's entirely too likely that he's actually watching from somewhere close by or that he has my apartment wired with some sort of surveillance (or both). An ugly shiver prickles its way down my spine, but there's really no way I can feel much more exposed than I already do, and so I obediently lift the glass and chug its contents.

"Good girl," he purrs. I cough, clearing my throat of the fiery burn and wait for a second to make sure none of it's going to come back up, still not feeling quite safe enough to speak to him again, afraid of what I might say, afraid of what he might do if I provoke him.

Believe me, I know how royally fucked up it is, thinking this way, trying to tailor my behavior to accommodate a psycho's whims, but at the moment, my fear of him outweighs my fear that if I try to think this way, I might get _stuck_ thinking this way, like some kind of Stockholm case. I don't want to end up making excuses for my tormentor, clinging to him instead of fleeing him in a counterproductive attempt to survive, but once again, when facing the very real threat that is the Joker, I can't seem to operate on principle. I have to act on instinct, and instinct says that I must play along. When he says _apologize_ , I say _I'm sorry_.

"So, Em," he says, taking on a conversational tone, "I can't help but notice—most people in your, uhh, _situation_ —well, now's the time they'd be clicking their _heels_ together and calling in the cavalry. But _you_ —you don't call, you don't write, you don't hijack GCN and try to get a message home. What gives, huh?"

I laugh thickly, reaching up to dab the corners of my eyes, which are suddenly wet. "You really want to talk about my personal life?"

"No," he says frankly, "not _really_ , but since it's probably gonna _take_ you a while to work up the courage to ask the obvious question on yer mind and we've got a few minutes, why not?" I'm silent, trying to think of a way to avoid divulging anything personal to this man, and my reluctance to speak seems to encourage him. "Oooh, do you even _have_ a home? Or is little Em an _orphan_ child?"

I feel my lips twisting wryly, even though it's not funny. "Very Dickensian, isn't it? I have no close family, no friends, fighting to survive on my own in this big bad city—of _course_ I'd be the one you decided to fixate on, wouldn't I?" I stop myself and wince, suddenly aware that he might not take too kindly to that term, _fixate_ , but he doesn't even appear to notice, instead humming in an expression of that mocking sympathy he seems to love so much. I clear my throat and stumble back onto my train of thought, hoping to keep him from re-examining my words and taking offense to them. "They… they died when I was ten. Plane crash. I moved in with my great aunt."

"Ahhhh," he croons. "And tell me, Em—did they die _hating_ you?"

I pause. "No," I answer finally, frowning. "No, they didn't." The question strikes me as an odd one, and I fumble awkwardly around it, trying not to be too obvious about the suspicion I've just gotten. "Wh—do you ask because—I mean, why do you ask?"

He lets out a sharp sigh and clicks his tongue a couple of times, the sound sharp and static in the speaker at my ear. "No, no, NO—what did I tell ya the first day we met; were you paying attention?"

"I…" It's been over five weeks since that day. I've tried to block as much of it as possible from my mind, but it seems like every time I encounter him, it comes rushing back to me, every last detail. "Are you talking about the bell curve?"

" _Exactly_. What _else_ did I say?"

"That… any explanation you could give me wouldn't be true."

"There, see? You _do_ listen, you just don't _think_."

I find it wisest not to continue this discussion. After all, how many times a day must he field curious looks, tasteless hints, and flat-out questions about a past for which he so obviously has only complete and total disregard? Well… maybe not that many, since even the stupidest henchman can probably understand that asking the boss about his childhood is a bad, _bad_ idea, but still, it's bound to annoy him. I don't _want_ to annoy him.

I hear him take a slow breath in, and then he releases a whooshing exhale. The sound of him breathing, oddly enough, is the thing that brings the realization to me so sharply that I can taste it—for all his theatricality, for all his mystery, he really _is_ a human being. This doesn't make him any less dangerous, but for some reason, the sudden understanding _does_ make me feel suddenly courageous enough to ask the question I've been wondering, the question he mentioned just a moment ago.

I inhale shakily, and, as if he can read my mind just by hearing the change in my breathing, he says expectantly, "Yes?"

"That question."

"Ahhh. Yes. That question."

"I'm ready to ask."

"Wait, wait." I huff shortly, listening as the crackling grows into a frantic crescendo and then suddenly stops. After a second of this new, oddly alien silence, his voice is back in my ear: "Okay, Em. Shoot."

I take another deep breath, and then, all in a rush, I ask, "When are you going to kill me?"

His immediate response is amusement, a high-pitched chortle through his nose, _hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm_. Then, in a disturbingly chipper tone, he asks, "Well, that depends, doesn't it? When's good for _you_?"

"I don't—"

"I mean, my schedule's _pretty_ busy, but I'm sure I could move some stuff around for _you_. What do you think? Next week? Tomorrow? …tonight?"

I'm silent. He lets the word sink into the silence between us, then, lowly, he says, "It _could_ be tonight. If ya like, I could waltz _right_ back into your place and bleed you while you sleep—or before, even, if that's what you _want_."

"I don't _want_ to die." It slips out before I can stop it, and I despise myself when I hear it—a pathetic whimper from a pathetic little girl.

The Joker's reply, though, is earnest enough. "You sure? Cause it seems like people are just… _linin' up_ for it these days. Dying's the new, uh, the new _black_."

"I mean—is this some real-life re-enactment of _Saw_?" I ask, trying not to sound insolent again—the fact that my voice is soft with dread helps. "What, do you want me to prove to you that I _deserve_ my life?"

I don't think he gets the reference. He's silent for a moment, and then, he says quickly and matter-of-factly, "Oh, come on, Em. No one _deserves_ to live."

"Not even you?" The question slips out before I can stop it, and he heaves a heavy sigh in response.

"Are we about to have _a moment_ , Em? 'Cause, I mean, I _really_ gotta wrap this up."

"No. I just—I'm trying to understand."

"Word of advice. Don't."

I nod silently, momentarily forgetting that I'm on the phone, then remembering that he can almost certainly see me anyway, so it's as valid a response as any. The Joker makes a sudden popping sound in my ear. "Oh- _kay_. I gotta go, Em, but you should drink up, get some rest. You're gonna need it."

"Wh—why?" I ask, but I hear a click, and I've lost him.

By now, I'm used to the sort of vague shell shock that immediately follows encounters with him. I look at my open window, wondering if he's out there right now. I want to go close it, close all the windows in the house and pull the curtains, but I'm half afraid he'd take that as a dare— _ha, ha,_ _you can't see me anymore_ —and I don't want him to think I'm challenging him to respond. I feel like it's safest for me to just stay put.

 _Oh, well,_ I think, reaching again for the bottle of gin. _There are other ways to stay warm._


	6. Switch & Bait

_I shall now amputate_  
_I shall now contort_  
_Because down is the new up._  
**Radiohead, Down is the New Up ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tnz9sSGprc))  
**

I wake up to the sound of beeping.

The world is rolling. Opening one eye proves to be a mistake, as the sight of the daylight pouring in through the open window sets my head throbbing furiously and cues a wave of instant nausea. My temples feel like they're going to pound out of my head, my mouth tastes like death, and I'm freezing cold. And I want to _smash_ the source of that beeping.

I can't seem to get my arms to move, so, panicking, I wrench myself sideways and immediately drop off the edge of the bed, stomach lurching as I fall several feet to the hard floor. The collision, which is nothing compared to the pain in my head, has the effect of loosening the tangle of blankets binding my arms and legs, enough so that I'm finally able to squirm out.

I get on all fours, attempt to stand upright, fall forward again, and crawl blindly towards the source of the sound—the corner of the room, where, I remember now, I threw the phone right before passing out because I didn't want it near me while I slept. I reach it finally, and, without pausing to question why I seem so compelled to answer, I hit 'accept' and put the phone to my ear. In too much pain and too disoriented to watch my tone, I snap, " _What?!_ "

No response. I take the phone away and look at the screen to see that the call was dropped, probably the second I tried to answer. I pull a face and let it slip from my hand and clatter to the floor, wincing as the noise makes my hangover pain spike. _Cute._ I don't want to think about why he thought I needed a wake-up call. Honestly, I'd rather tend to my considerable discomfort and ignore the Joker's game for as long as he'll let me—after all, the one attempt I've made to escape it all so far was so thoroughly shut down that it makes me think any effort to make plans to protect myself would simply be a waste of time.

I unsteadily stand upright. I try (mostly in vain) to ignore the aching in my skull. My immediate priority is tending to the pain. I liberate three Advil from the medicine cabinet and chase them with a massive glass of water. Despite not being the partying type, I know this should help—the pills will temporarily knock out the pain, which comes from dehydration, and by the time they wear off the water will have started to assist my body as it repairs itself.

The pain won't go away for a little while yet, so I gingerly move through the apartment, closing windows and curtains. It's going to take forever for the place to heat back up, but I figure I've got blankets and jackets and socks to keep me warm until then.

Despite the fact that I'm paying for it in a big way right now, I can't seem to regret the fact that I drank last night. For a while, I was fully aware that I was the Joker's newest rag doll, but I simply didn't care. For a while, I didn't give a shit. I can feel the heaviness of that understanding settling over my shoulders once again, but a dubious benefit of the hangover is that everything seems to come second to the pain, so I still can't care _that_ much.

 _Maybe I should just carry a flask around all the time,_ I think, only half-joking, but as I force myself into the bathroom for a bath (I'm not looking forward to stripping down in the frigid air, but submersion in hot water should restore the warmth to my chilled bones), I reluctantly dismiss the idea. As helpless as I feel and as tired as I am already after only three encounters with the man (four, if you count the phone call last night), there's a stubborn little instinct still kicking in there somewhere. That's what's telling me that if (when) I do meet up with the Joker again, I'm going to want to be firing on all cylinders, no impairments. Heaven knows I'm in bad enough shape against him already.

I run the water and sit on the edge, intending to stay fully clothed against the chill until I've got enough water in the tub to cover me. The pain is still there, but it's growing more bearable—the throb is lessening in intensity and I feel like I don't have to squint quite as much. Despite the fog in my brain keeping me from being quite as sharp as usual, I surprise myself when I realize that I want to think about my situation.

Ever since that first day in the warehouse, I've been struggling to suppress those memories. Thinking about it has always made me feel vaguely sick. Last night, though, the game changed. He made his intentions to make a sort of _project_ out of me perfectly clear. I tried to run. I failed. So now I'm left with the certainty that another meeting is imminent, something I didn't have before. I don't know that _planning_ for it will help anything, but… there might be some benefits to running through it, trying to find any loopholes, any possible scenarios that don't end with me being dead.

While I understand the folly of trying to find logic in the whims of a madman, I begrudgingly admit to myself that perhaps trying to figure out _his_ goal in all this might yield some options to me.

 _Well, what_ _**does** _ _he want?_

… _he wants to see what I'm made of. He wants to see if he can make a coward out of me if I'm a hero, or a hero out of me if I'm a coward._

_But that necessitates knowing which one I am first._

_So. Which one are you?_

I sit in silence, watching tiny little clumps of steam drift up from the rippling surface of the water and evaporate as they go. Because this has been the problem from day one. With the threat of death, my instincts had deteriorated to survival of the fittest, but even so, I couldn't stomach the sight of the little girl, in pain and fear, too young to understand what was happening to her and how to fight it. Fellow adults I could conscience abandoning, since I expect them to be able to take care of themselves (at least if they're living in Gotham), but that powerless child…

I sniff and shake my head abruptly. It had all come to nothing. In fact, my attention had probably been the signature to her death warrant. _I can't dwell on that_. My survival instinct is kicking in again, shielding my eyes, steering me away from that train of thought— _going down that path is bad for you._ Despite the unusual selfless act in diverting his attention for the helpless child, it would appear that my selfishness is fully intact.

 _So which one_ _**am** _ _I?_

I have no fucking clue. And until _I_ know, I won't be able to predict what he might do next, except that it'll probably involve schemes that will draw lines and make the whole situation a little more black-and-white. Am I a coward or a hero?

Somehow, I'm sure he'll find a way of figuring it out.

I stand abruptly and start throwing clothes off onto the floor. I undress completely, ignoring the goosebumps prickling my skin and the fact that they might be there for some reason other than the cold, and I climb into the tub, sinking until I'm submerged from just below the cut on my collarbone down. The water is too hot, but I welcome the slight ache of the heat on my skin.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," I say on a sudden impulse. Although I feel a little stupid for speaking the thought to nothing but the sound of running water, I mostly just feel better for having admitted it to myself. I've always been the sort to plan ahead whenever possible—I always feel horrible when I have to act on instinct, obsessing about how I could have done better if I had the time to plan.

It occurs to me, though—comfortingly—that I'm not likely to be able to thwart the Joker's schemes with any plans I might have. My plan last night to leave the city? I may not have been explicitly thinking about it in advance, but I'd be lying if I didn't say it was always a potential exit hatch, that whenever shit went down, I always knew I could just _walk away_ from the city and my life here and escape his clutches.

Now I know that's not true (in fact, I suspect that he or his henchmen might have actually been the ones to tip the police off to my flight). And, as uncertain and uncomfortable as I am working without a plan, I think this might work to my advantage. Plans, he can predict, and he can therefore work in advance to make sure they fail. Instinct, on the other hand… well. You never know for _sure_ what a creature trapped in a corner is going to do.

Ironically enough, this reassures me, and the warmth of the bath is soothing, and the Advil is finally kicking in, gently wiping away the pain in my head. For a moment, I close my eyes and bask in the moment of peace, knowing that the odds of having many more of these in the near future are very slim.

Predictably, it doesn't last very long. After a few minutes spent soaking in the bath, I start to hear little sounds. It's nothing particularly outrageous, but there's a scratching sound here, a little thump there. Maybe yesterday I would have been too afraid to open my eyes, but now, I know there's no alternative, and I do, looking over at my door.

I see nothing, hear nothing—the doorknob isn't rolling over as someone tries to get in and there's no scratch of a lockpick. Still, I can't relax, and I don't blink as I watch the door, my heart rate picking up with every passing second. After a moment of this, shoulders tense, eyes wide and alert, I hear the footsteps, barely audible over the sound of the running water (which I don't dare to shut off now). They creak very softly against the old wood of my apartment floor and I hear them coming right up to the bathroom door. I crane my neck, trying not to dislodge too much water, and I lean down some, clutching the side of the tub for balance as I stare hard at the tiny gap between the bottom of the door and the frame.

I see shadows, two of them, about six inches apart and lined and punctuated by the light of my bedroom. I cover my mouth with my hand, somehow aware that I might make some sort of noise that will betray my knowledge of this fact, and I stare at them, thinking _he's standing right there, and I could not be more exposed._

The shadows remain totally motionless for a minute or longer as the water continues to run, filling the tub slowly. Finally, though, just as I'm starting to privately freak out at the thought that they won't shift and the tub will start overflowing, one moves, followed by the other. They disappear from the gap, leaving just a seam of pure, unbroken light, and after a second, I sit up, making more room for the water, which I'm still not comfortable switching off.

I wait another minute before turning the faucet off, then I wait even longer. The sounds have faded, but I don't want to pull myself out of the bath, to dress in yesterday's clothes because I can't risk going out in a towel to get fresh ones, don't want to go out into my apartment to find him there, maybe with henchmen, maybe not.

I wait until the temperature of the water has cooled considerably before forcing myself out. Hiding away in my bathtub is not a solution to the situation. In brisk, choppy movements, I towel off and quickly put on the old clothes. Then, acting much braver than I feel, I yank the door open.

My bedroom is empty and undisturbed. I look around for some sort of weapon. I carry an aluminum baseball bat in the trunk of my car, mace on my keychain, and there are long knives readily available in my kitchen, but none of those help me _right now._ I pull the little four-inch blade from the pocket of my jeans. It'll have to do until I can get something better.

Carefully I move through my apartment, searching for any sign of the intruders. Bathroom, bedroom, two broom closets, little living area—I see no sign that anyone was even _here_ until I reach the kitchen. Then, I spot the red writing on the fridge.

_**Knock knock  
can M come out to play?** _

This is scrawled across the top freezer door, and a large red smiley crosses the entire bottom as a signature. The substance with which the message was inscribed is suspiciously drippy and turning vaguely brownish in places and I do not feel the need to go over and inspect it. Instead, I approach the knife set and draw a butcher's knife and then leave the kitchen again.

The thought of calling the police does cross my mind, but I dismiss it immediately. I have no doubt that if I do that, the Joker will find some way to thwart me. I'm on my own here. Instead, I go straight back to my room and pick out a new set of clothes, not bothering with anything I'm particularly attached to, since it will probably end up getting blood on it anyway. Plain green v-neck sweater, black jacket over it, black jeans underneath, all chosen the fact that they're all form-fitting and will not inhibit me if I need to move fast. I take them into the bathroom. I don't have a guarantee that he can't see me in here, but since I know he's got the bedroom bugged, I'm not comfortable out there.

As I change, I realize that I'm planning to leave. Not for good, this time—at least, not unless I see an opportunity—but my head isn't hurting as much, my thoughts are clearer, and I understand that huddling in the apartment and waiting for something to _happen_ to me is probably what I would have done before the encounter yesterday. It is probably what I'm expected to do.

It's what I _won't_ do.

I'm not sure where I'll go, but I'm certain I can keep myself occupied. Maybe when I get home again I'll find some clearer indication of what he's planning. In the meantime I can only keep moving and hope that it throws him off long enough to extend my peace for a few hours.

As soon as I'm dressed, I hear the phone ringing, and my heart jumps into my mouth until I realize that it's _my_ cell phone, not the little burner the Joker left for me. I answer warily. "Hello?"

"Emma Vane?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"This is Officer Rodriguez down at the police station. We met yesterday, remember?"

"Oh," I say, stiffening as I realize that there may or may not be blood on my fridge right now and the police may or may not be under the impression that I'm having a psychotic break. I try to sound more relaxed than I feel as I ask, "Yes, can I help you?"

"We'd like you to come down to the station, if you don't mind."

"What for?"

"Well, Officer Hartman—Eli—seemed pretty adamant that you should talk to the shrink we've got on site, and Commissioner Gordon signed off on it. It's nothing to be worried about, just a routine check, but they _do_ insist."

I sigh. "When?"

"As soon as you can come."

"All right," I say shortly. "I'll be there in less than an hour."

I hang up without saying goodbye. Aunt Katherine raised me with much better phone manners than that, but the cops are proving more of a hindrance than a help just now, what with Eli's theory that I'm making all this shit up, and I'm admittedly frustrated. Still, better to deal with it now, to talk to someone who's going to _know_ I'm not faking it than let the cops keep spinning their ideas about how I'm not playing with a full deck until they can't help but believe it, no matter what their shrink says.

 _Oh, well,_ I think as I grab my keys and wallet. _At least now I know where I'm going today. And hell, if they_ _ **do**_ _lock me up, odds are I'm safer there than at home._

Only one problem. When I get down to my street, my car is nowhere in sight. In fact, there's a hydrant that I swear wasn't there before right next to the place where I swear I parked.

It takes me less than a second to pin at least two good reasons for the Joker to steal my car. First, he's limiting my mobility. Second, if I report this to the police, doubtless he'll put the car right back where it was, making me look even crazier.

I make a mental note to take it up with him next time we speak, and I marvel a little at how cavalier the thought is. My decision to play this by ear might just be the best thing to come out of this whole ordeal—yesterday, I was ready to leave a whole apartment full of stuff behind, and even now, I'm willing to ditch everything but my life if it'll get me out of this city. A stolen car is not going to faze me.

I go to the train station instead.

I'm not used to taking the train, so once I get there, it takes me a moment to figure out which route I need to be on, and by the time I've got it all sorted out, I almost get left behind. I manage to slide between the doors right before they shut, and the train rumbles and shakes ominously before it sets off.

As I take one of the many unoccupied seats, I check out the other inhabitants of the car. The trains aren't as in-demand now as they were twenty years ago, I gather, having deteriorated a good deal, but they still attract regular users, and there are about six other people in the car with me—I can see a few more in the couple of adjoining cars, too. I'm checking to see if any of them look as if they might be here on the Joker's say-so, but everyone looks… normal.

But then, how can you tell until shit goes down? After all, there are plenty of bulging bags, briefcases, and satchels that could contain clown masks, ready to go on at any second. It's not as if I've ever seen any of his henchmen unmasked.

In the end, I prefer to just study my knotted fingers. I'm paranoid enough without worrying that one of my fellow passengers might be about to jump me. I console myself with the thought that I'm almost certain no one followed me, at least.

It does finally strike me, though, that I haven't seen any cops outside of my building since well before I came home to find the Joker having his little cooking party in my kitchen yesterday. I'm not sure what that means. Is it possible that Gordon could have pulled them after the bomb incident—or afterwards, when Eli reported that I was behaving strangely? Would he have decided against taking the risk of making them targets for the Joker or operated on the doubt that there was any risk in the first place?

I don't know. I don't know Gordon well enough to try and figure out what he's thinking, and frankly, there's enough on my plate without me trying to get inside a cop's head. I reach up, massaging my temple with an index finger, exhaling slowly.

And of course, this is the moment he chooses to crash back on scene.

His voice comes over the train's PA system after a harsh second of squealing feedback that has us all cringing. "Goo-ood afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he says genially, and I feel every hair on my body stand on end, eyes going wide as I process the presence of his voice in these surroundings and put together what it must mean. Not everyone around me seems to understand what's going on quite so immediately. _But they will._

The Joker continues, obviously in his element, his voice high-pitched and energetic. "Thank you for joining us this afternoon," he continues, practically purring. "And importantly, thank you for volunteering for… er, a little _psychological ex-per-i-men-t._ "

They're starting to grasp it now. I see the looks of horror on faces, hear the half-muffled shriek of dismay from one of the women. A man who was standing before, holding onto one of the support straps, sinks bonelessly down into a chair as if his knees simply refuse to hold him up any longer.

Everyone in Gotham dreads this day, the day they get caught in the crossfire in the war between the Joker and the law. I look around at the terrified faces and all I can think is _yeah, try doing this three times._

Again, the survival instinct turns me into kind of an asshole.

The Joker goes on, and his voice only gets more cheerful with each word. "I would like to direct your attention to, ah, the _subject_ of this particular project of mine. Everyone just, uh—turn your heads and take a look. See the cute little redhead sitting next to the door in car two?"

I imagine I can hear a whooshing sound as heads turn almost unanimously to face me. I avoid making eye contact with any of them, instead glaring out of the opposite window, trying not to imagine what he's up to but still coming up with any number of scenarios— _he's going to make them attack me for their own survival, he's going to force me to pick one of them to kill_ —

"That's Em. Say hi to the nice people, Em."

My glare intensifies. I don't know if he's actually on the train, watching the surveillance cameras from a distance, or not watching at all, but I have no intention of letting him make me look like I'm complicit in all this. If he wants me to wave and smile, he can come make me.

"No?" he asks, sounding disappointed. "All right, then. So, everyone, here's the deal. There's, ah, there's a _bomb_ wired up to the bottom of the train." Gasps and shrieks are drowned out by his voice, which raises and clarifies. "And this next part, this part is very, _very_ important: anyone so much as lays a _finger_ on Em… _kaboom_."

The people sitting and standing anywhere near me all shift away in unison. I cross my arms over my chest and glare. I know I look like a pissy teenager, but I can't summon the energy to care. "Everyone got that?" he asks patiently, as if all the other passengers are _not_ looking at me like I'm a plague victim. "Good. Now, here's whatchya need to know: the bomb's set to _go off_ as soon as the train leaves from the next station. And Em, you've got a choice to make."

He stops, and I find myself finally wrenching my eyes away from the window, turning to look at the surveillance cam at the front of the car, imagining that if he can see my eyes, if he can see the anger and confusion and pleading in them, maybe, just _maybe_ he'll decide today's not a good day and call it off.

The speaker crackles with static. I keep staring, and after a second, voice lower than ever but still loud, amplified over the system, he begins to speak again, now addressing me directly. "So, Em. Now's your chance to… finally offer some results for our little project. When the train pulls into the next station, in, uh, three minutes, twenty-six seconds, you're gonna choose whether this _fiiiiine_ group of people gets to hop off the train and survive while you stay behind, or whether you're gonna jump ship and leave them to a… _mmmessy_ end. It's gotta be one or the other, or you all go up in _flames._ "

More crackling as I draw in a sharp breath, and he clicks his tongue. "Let's see what kind of a _hero_ you really are. Oh, and, uh—I would think fast."

With another piercing blare of feedback, he switches off, leaving me to face the horrified stares of my fellow passengers. I look sharply from face to face to face and find that I can't cope with their suspicion, their anger and their fear, and so I close my eyes, cross my arms so tightly over my stomach that my whole body starts to shake, and drop my head. When one of the women nearest me starts to plead in a low, agonized voice, I reach up sharply and clamp my hands over my ears, because if I give the slightest indication that I'm willing to listen to her, then they will all begin, begging for their lives, trying to persuade me to make this sacrifice for the cause of some greater good, and hearing that clamor will doubtless drive me directly off of this train the first chance I get.

The recklessness from earlier is gone because now I am no longer dealing with just me and my life. He just made me responsible for everyone on this train, at least ten people, and I've got perhaps two minutes left to decide if I could live with myself if I really _did_ jump off the train and leave them to die.

And right now, I'm having difficulty thinking about the greater good, about conventions of morality or right and wrong or heroes and villains or forming a coherent thought at all, really. I can only think that I'm scared, absolutely terrified, and that I honestly do not know what to do.

A minute and a half.

I hear a high-pitched whining in my ears, doubtless a result of the pressure from my hands, and as jarring as I normally find that sound, right now, I'm grateful for it, because I'm almost positive that it is drowning out the murmurs of desperate people, murmurs that I would probably be able to hear even with my hands covering my ears.

One minute. I crack one eye open to see the station about half a mile ahead, and then close my eyes tightly again, because it's all rushing up on me too quickly and I still don't know what I'm going to do when the train pulls to a stop.

I played right into his hands. This was always going to happen—even if I'd decided to stay in my apartment today, to take a taxi to the police station instead of the train or made some other choice, he would have found _some_ way of herding me here to star in his little experiment.

_And you know it was always going to end this way._

The thought simultaneously stuns me and throws the entire world into sharp relief. I open my eyes, and I see everything like it's moving in slow motion—the jabbering jaws of my fellow passengers, their eyes rolling in fear, and beyond them, through the dirty windows of the train, the ugly beauty of the city, the winter gray storm clouds bundled together in the sky. As I watch, the sun pierces through for just a second.

_You know it was always going to end this way. You die before this is over no matter what happens or what decisions you make._

The thought comforts me as we careen up to the station and the train begins screeching to a stop. I slowly lower my hands from my ears. The people are looking at me fearfully, like I'm a time bomb, and I suppose I am. But somehow, knowing that this choice isn't really a genuine _choice_ at all, that the only choice I can _really_ make is whether or not to give him the satisfaction of my selfishness, makes it better. Either way, I die.

All at once, we've stopped moving and the doors have slid open. Everyone's staring at me and I swallow convulsively several times, trying to work up the courage to speak the words. A few seconds pass before I finally manage to say, "Get out."

It comes out quietly, and no one actually moves. The knowledge that the doors are going to slide shut again in just a few seconds suddenly hits me, and I look up abruptly and almost shriek, " _Get the fuck_ _ **out**_ _!_ Get out before I change my mind! _Now_!"

Twice is enough. There's a stampede towards the doors, and I hunch away, sliding onto a seat further from the press of the crowd as it pushes its way out of the train, piling onto the elevated platform outside, and I don't look to see if any of them look at me. I don't want to see any sympathy in their eyes, because I'm not sure I'll be able to stick to my decision if I do. Same if I _don't_ see any sympathy.

The last one gets out a second before the doors slide closed, and I suddenly feel unbearably hot. Knowing that I only have seconds, I shuck off my jacket and roll up my sleeves, trying to ignore the fact that I'm starting to hyperventilate more than a little, that the fear is creeping up from my belly and filling my throat, choking me. I automatically fold the jacket and place it on the seat beside me as the train begins to move again, somehow taking comfort in the normalcy of the action.

Then I look at the surveillance cam. I'm almost certain he's watching. If he is, I want him to be looking me in the fucking eyes when I die. I don't know why. I mean, the guy probably gets some kind of sick thrill from this sort of thing, but… but maybe it makes me feel a little less alone and less afraid, knowing that behind that camera, he might be looking back at me. Even _if_ he put me here to begin with. At the very least, it distracts me from the fact that I can't breathe for fear.

The explosion, when it comes, takes me off-guard, even though I'm expecting it. The train rocks and trembles and it's… loud, but not loud enough, and even as I feel a sharp pain in my back and feel open air blasting against me, I realize that I'm not _dead_.

My eyes automatically screwed themselves shut at the first boom, so it takes me a moment to realize that the train has shuddered to a stop but that it has definitely not exploded and I am still definitely not dead. I open my eyes wide and I whip around. The back of the train has holes blown in it, the windows totally shattered—probably the source of the pain in my back—but I'm not concerned with that right now, instead trying to get a good look at the platform behind me where all the other passengers got off.

It's completely obscured by thick, dusty clouds of black smoke, and the blast seems to have thrown the train off-track—not much, but enough to stop it. It takes my brain a few seconds to catch up with my eyes, to realize that the station has just collapsed beneath all that smoke and flame, doubtless burying anyone still there in debris, and that I can't see the street below, can't see if any of them managed to get away before.

I strain to see, but the smoke is only spreading, and I can smell the fire now. A thought manages to penetrate my fog of shock: _But—but he said. He said the bomb was on the train. He said I could save them if I chose to be a hero. He said—_

The now-familiar black spots are beginning to obscure my vision, and I realize that something warm is oozing down my back. I feel my arms give out beneath me and suddenly I'm lying face down against the seats, unable to move and unable to see.

This time, I welcome the unconsciousness. This time, I slip under without a fight.


	7. Subterfuge

_You and whose army?_  
_You and your cronies?_  
_…you forget so easy._  
_- **Radiohead, You and Whose Army¿ ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jfK3HVuzroU))  
**_

Maybe it's because I want the bliss of unconsciousness so badly and my track record for getting what I want lately is shit, but I come to after only a few seconds. I can tell because I can smell smoke, hear sirens and crying and fire, and there's a sharp pain in my back that kills— _probably what woke me up,_ I think resentfully as I get my arms beneath me and push myself up with a groan.

I climb to my hands and knees and rest for a moment, trembling. I suppose now would be the proper time to vomit and shake and go into shock, and maybe this overly clinical thought process _is_ shock, but all I can think is _I need to see how badly I'm hurt._ The survivor has taken over again, and I shift on the seats, gingerly sitting up straight and then twisting my arms behind me to feel for injury.

I was right. It was the glass from the windows in the back of the train that caused the pain I now feel in my back, and it's not just in one place—I can feel pieces wedged in multiple spots from shoulder to mid-back, and I'm bleeding from most of them, but none of them seem particularly deep, none of the shards inordinately large. It stings, but I'll live. In fact, I'm pretty sure the brief period of unconsciousness had more to do with being totally overwhelmed than with the glass in my back.

Still, I don't intend to go climbing out of the train and risk falling onto it. Though none of the glass shards are _huge_ , there are some average-sized ones that could probably do some real damage with the proper application of pressure, and I don't want to remove them myself for fear that I've misjudged the severity of the situation and will start bleeding in earnest if I try. Even so, I figure I can move to get a better vantage point and try to decide what to do next.

 _Why couldn't Gotham have had subways like normal cities?_ I think as I pick my way to the back of the train. Instead of hopping out into the tunnel and walking back to the platform, I'm suspended twenty feet in the air on a stupid monorail system, helpless to move until someone gets a ladder up to me.

For a moment, I feel a flare of fear that he'll be coming for me, but even as I reach the decimated back of the train and see that the dust from the collapse is slowly starting to settle and that I can see flashing red and blue lights through the remnants, I realize that he's probably not going to risk it, not with all the cops about to show up. The PA system on the train is totaled, frizzing and skitzing against the backdrop of the sound of sirens, so I think I'm on my own for now.

Clinging to the side of the car, trying not to get too close to the edge—I don't think you could say I have a phobia of heights, but I've got a bit of a common sense thing about getting too close to edges more than six feet above the ground—I look down. More cops have arrived, and one's looking up at me. I start waving, but I don't think it's safe to yell, since yelling would necessitate deep breaths and with all the smoke around, I don't think that's a great idea.

An intuition that's confirmed when the cop shouts up at me, "Just hold tight, Miss; fire trucks are on the way," breathes in, and immediately starts hacking and coughing. I sink down, feeling safer on the train floor than standing upright, and I wait.

In five minutes, the trucks are here. Shortly after that, they've managed to get a ladder and a fireman up to me, and not ten minutes have passed before I'm sitting in the back of an ambulance twenty yards from the site of the explosion, wincing as a medic pulls the shards of glass meticulously from my back, taping a pad of gauze to each wound to protect them and slow the bleeding.

I would be a little perturbed by the fact that I don't seem to feel guilty, but in all honesty, I don't seem to feel anything at all—well, not emotionally. Each new piece of glass this guy pulls out of my back undeniably stings like a bitch.

"We'll take you to the hospital soon," the medic promises me as he works. "Unfortunately, Gordon's made it pretty clear lately that no one but the dead or dying gets to leave a crime scene before it's determined whether they had anything to do with it, but once we get the all-clear we'll take you there and check you out more thoroughly."

"You sure that's safe?" I ask, and I don't realize where the question's coming from until after it leaves my mouth and I think about the Joker's little dynamite party at Gotham General last year. The medic says something in response, but I'm not paying attention—a police officer, beefy, ruddy-faced, and skinheaded, is approaching me, looking apprehensive.

The medic turns his attention to him. "Officer," he says sharply before the guy can start in, "I'm still treating her."

I suppose he's thinking about the fact that the back of my shirt is rolled up to my shoulders and I'm a little exposed, but I can't imagine being bothered at this moment. Being questioned by a police officer while surrounded by EMTs, firemen, and _more_ police officers? Hell, I could probably be _naked_ and still not feel uncomfortable. This is cake.

"It's okay," I tell the medic, still feeling extraordinarily calm as I direct my attention towards the policeman. "Officer, how can I help you?"

"I'm Officer Markes," he says, "and I'm sorry for not waiting—"

"It's fine," I repeat. "How can I help?"

Markes looks over my head at the medic, looking confused, and I see understanding dawn on his face. I imagine the medic has probably indicated to him that I'm in shock. If I _am_ in shock, it seems an extraordinary time for my body to decide it was an appropriate response—after all, I'd argue that the past three encounters were a lot more frightening than _this_ one, what with the Joker being actually present, and I hadn't gone into shock _then_.

Still, I wait patiently as the officer starts talking to me as if I'm mentally slow. "Can you tell me what happened?" he asks very, very gently. "Can you remember?"

"I remember," I say. "It was the Joker." The medic's hands go still on my back for a moment before moving on, and I look Marks in the eye. "He patched into the PA system somehow and said we were going to be part of a psychological experiment."

Marks squints. "What kind of… experiment?"

I briefly consider lying, but I highly doubt this will be the last interrogation I face before this is all over, and _someone's_ going to recognize me as the girl who's dealt with the Joker at least twice and whose sanity might be wavering. I decide to build on that instead. "I don't know if you recognize me, Officer Markes…" He shakes his head, looking apologetic, and I shrug and move on. "Over the past month or so, I've been in the station a few times because the Joker has…" I clear my throat. "Apparently formed some sort of fixation on me."

The medic's not even pretending to work now, and Markes is looking slack-jawed at me. I speed up. "So this time he comes onto the PA and he says that… that there's a bomb wired to the train and that when we reached the stop, I was supposed to decide who got off, me or the rest of the passengers. Whoever was left would get blown up. I chose to stay and let them go."

"But the bomb wasn't on the train," objects Markes.

Now it's my turn to look at him like _he's_ a little mentally slow. "Yes. I know that. I didn't know that at the time. He… lied."

The medic snorts a little bit, probably thinking _fuckin' right he did_ , and I agree. Markes is now looking like he wants to step away from me, and he gets his chance when a voice says his name. I follow the sound and my gaze falls on an officer I vaguely recognize.

"All done," the medic says, sounding a little too cheerful for the circumstances, and I mumble an automatic thanks as I pull my shirt back down—there are bloody holes riddling the back now, but it's cold out here, and a holey shirt is better than no covering at all.

Suddenly, as the new officer approaches and we make eye contact, I place him. "Officer Rodriguez," I blurt.

"Miss Vane?" he says, sounding perplexed. "What are you doing here?"

"I… was on the train."

It suddenly strikes me that this day is not going to end well for me—not that it had much of a chance of ending well in the first place. Rodriguez's eyebrows rush down in undisguised suspicion, and I'm too tired to cower away from it, meeting his eyes frankly.

"I need to borrow Markes here for a second," he says brusquely, and grabs his colleague by the elbow, dragging him aside.

I resign myself to the fact that I'm about to be arrested. The emotional numb is holding fast; I can't feel dismay at the idea that the police are going to try their damndest to pin this shit on me _or_ relief at the fact that I'm about to be locked up in a police station, which might possibly be the safest place in the city for someone hiding from the Joker.

Or, considering the stories the papers told last year about a one Mr. Lau, perhaps not.

I glance over at the two cops, watching them as they talk, and their increasing number of suspicious glances towards me just confirms it further—they find it difficult to believe that I conveniently was the only one to escape the explosion if I wasn't allied with him. Tiredly, I recognize that this was almost certainly part of his intent. Each time he's released me has strengthened the police's suspicions that he must somehow have some regard for me, and why would he have regard for someone who isn't on his side? Furthermore, that little trick he pulled with removing traces of his presence from my apartment yesterday casts considerable doubt on my mental state, and everyone knows the people who work for the Joker are loony tunes. He's stacking the deck against me.

 _That bastard_ , I think, but I can't even summon up the usual venom at the thought.

Markes is talking back to Rodriguez now. There's a lot of noise around me, but Markes is one of those people whose voice carries, and I catch the words, "—thought she seemed a bit too calm…"

"That's because I'm in _shock_ , assholes!" I call out, not really mad but tired of waiting around. Maybe this'll make them speed up the process. Never mind the fact that I'm not actually in shock.

They exchange grim glances and then come to me, Marks reaching back and resting a casual hand on the hilt of his gun. I shake my head. Like I'm gonna do anything _here_ , surrounded by law officers.

"Miss Vane," says Rodriguez, "I don't like to have to do this, but I have to say, the situation looks pretty suspicious. I'm gonna have to take you down to the station."

"Hallelujah," I say wearily, rising slowly to my feet. "Is there heat in your car? It's freezing out here. I thought I was supposed to get a blanket."

Rodriguez goes through the motions of placing me under formal arrest—this isn't just a polite request for my presence; he reads me my rights and cuffs and searches me and everything, and I snap at him when he touches my back and hits one of the sore spots. He pulls back quickly enough and puts me in the back of the cop car.

This is my first time being arrested. That's all I can really think about on the way to the station—or rather, all I _want_ to think about. I become conscious that I'm studiously not worrying about the Joker's next move. It doesn't matter anyway, and I'd rather not risk sacrificing this peace by fretting and trying to think about what his game was. Is. I don't give a shit. Let him come and take me from the police station if he wants.

Looking up front, I ask, "Are you gonna charge me with anything?"

Rodriguez doesn't respond, so I say, "If you don't charge me, you've got to let me go, right?"

"We can hold you for twenty-four hours," he says sharply. "That should be enough to figure out whether or not we _need_ to charge you."

"So until then, nothing official, right?" He glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I shrug, still feeling totally serene. "It's my first time being arrested."

He still doesn't answer. I shake my head and settle back. "Whatever," I mumble, and close my eyes. Alcohol-induced sleep isn't exactly the best sleep, and maybe it's the unpleasant turn this day is taking or the blood loss, but I feel very tired.

I actually manage to doze a little bit until we get to one of the branches of the Gotham City Police Department. I'm taken inside, and, as I suspected, I'm not formally booked—no fingerprints, no mug shots, nothing that would probably accompany a real arrest. They remove my cuffs and put me into a holding cell, one of four lined along a wall in the back of the station, opposite a surveillance area where an officer keeps an eye on the prisoners and the station cams. It must be a slow day in Gotham, because there are only two prisoners, one to each of the first two cells, and I get my own, the third in the lineup. One eyeballs me and mutters under his breath, and the other is sitting on the bench in the cell, rocking back and forth and not paying much attention to anything around him.

The first one's obviously not all there and the second one's obviously strung out. I don't see them as any sort of threat, and slowly, I sit on the bench against the back wall and wait to be taken to an interrogation room.

There's another holding cell sharing the wall of bars that make up the right of mine, but it's empty, so I don't have to worry about anyone sneaking up on me as long as I keep a distance from the guy in the cell to my left. I lean back against the wall and wince as the move puts a little pressure on my cuts, but the pain fades quickly enough and I rest a bit more easily, figuring _hell, pressure's probably the best thing for 'em right now, anyway_.

I wait. I try to sleep. I can't, and it has little to do with the fact that I've just been arrested—no, it's more that I can't help but notice that the police station seems a little… empty. One of the benefits of facing the surveillance area is that I can see the monitor screens of the cameras all throughout the station, and I can't count more than seven or eight policemen altogether. Not unusual, considering the fact that a terrorist just bombed a train station, but the fact that they seem to just _keep leaving_ isn't reassuring. Even as I think it, I see the fourth and fifth cops to depart the station leave through the front door, and I can't take it anymore. I bolt up from the bench and cross the cell, grabbing the bars.

"Officer!" I call out to Rodriguez, who's meant to be keeping an eye on us. "Officer, what's going on?"

"Shut up," he snaps immediately, giving me a sharp, suspicious glance, and turns back to the screen.

Finally starting to feel something—unease—I return to the bench, pull my feet up so I'm perching atop it in a sort of poor man's lotus, and I try to close my eyes and get as much rest as I can.

This proves much more difficult when Officer Eli Hartman bursts into the holding area about an hour later, shoving a tightly-handcuffed Joker along in front of him.

* * *

**Interlude II**

_The sun is going down, and Commissioner Jim Gordon is not pleased._

_The train station bombing was only the start. It had set off a chain reaction of explosions all over the city—some in populated areas, some not, and thus far, he does not have a clue what the Joker's game is._

_Oh, he knows it's the Joker's doing—there are blood-red smiley faces graffitied on walls within a block of every site so far as a calling card, and that's why ninety percent of his men are out in the city—they're combing the alleyways for more of those ghastly smileys, trying to predict where the next explosion will be. It's all they can do at this point—they aren't much use on the sites that have already been hit, not with the firemen and the EMTs already doing their jobs, and so Gordon figures the best they can do is try to stop more people from getting killed._

_Jim Gordon isn't one to shirk, either, and he's out alone, reluctant to reduce the ground he and his men can cover by partnering up. He parks in the East End outside of a network of alleyways too narrow and too full of sharp angles to navigate in a car and digs his heavy Maglight out, muttering a curse towards the sunset as he does. This would be easier if they had natural light._

_He realizes he's wrong about this as he turns his second corner and nearly runs headlong into a massive black shadow. Before he knows it, his hand is on the hilt of his gun, and then he hisses out through his teeth as he realizes what he's looking at._

" _What are_ _ **you**_ _doing here?" he asks, worry making his voice sharp. The Batman has been extremely scarce since taking the fall for Dent, and as much as Gordon misses his assistance, he's also afraid every time Batman ventures out to help stop one of the big names, afraid that this time he'll get caught._

" _I've found one at 227 Umberland Street in Crime Alley and one at 021 Bulger Way in the Narrows," Batman says directly, dispensing with niceties as usual. "They've been disarmed, but the areas should be evacuated anyway, just in case he has backups in place. There's no time to thoroughly check each area; there are too many. What's the news with the clown?"_

_Gordon runs a hand through his hair, which has been standing on end ever since the news of the first explosion. "Some of my men located him just inside of the Narrows and managed to subdue him," he says, too harried to feel particularly happy about this. "They don't want to say which station they're taking him to over the scanners."_

" _I'd bet money it's whichever one you're holding Emma Vane in."_

 _Gordon blinks, stares at the dark mask and almost asks "How did you know?" but catches himself. It's Batman. Of_ _**course** _ _he knows. "You know she's innocent. She wants nothing to do with him," he continues, sounding so sure of himself, and Gordon nods, because he feels in his bones that Batman is right, and besides, knowing him, he's probably got the evidence to back it up._

" _We couldn't let her just walk away," he says, almost apologetically. "There's no such thing as coincidence, especially on this level. Either she's working for the Joker—which I agree is unlikely—or she's become his prey, which sounds about right. Regardless of which one it is, a holding cell's the best place for her tonight."_

" _Unless the Joker wants it that way," Batman gravels, and Gordon has no idea how a man in a mask covering most of his face can look so thoroughly unimpressed. "All of this feels like a distraction. You know his history with misdirection."_

" _I'll get back there as soon as I can," Gordon promises, but even as he speaks, he spreads his hands helplessly. "We need everyone we can get on this, though. There could be any number of bombs throughout the city, and fifteen people are dead already. If his goal is misdirection, then it's working, because as harsh as it sounds, I can't worry about one girl's life when a hundred others are weighing in against it."_

_Batman grunts, and Gordon can tell he agrees. They both hate it, but it's one of those realities you get used to facing in law enforcement in every form. "Then hurry," Batman says abruptly. "And send reinforcements to the station where you're holding her as soon as you can spare them."_

_A fire truck suddenly passes, flashing red lights and blaring its horn, and Gordon turns instinctively to check. Immediately, even before he turns back, he knows that Batman will have taken the opportunity to disappear, as usual, and he glances over his shoulder to confirm that darkness has replaced the bat. He shakes his head, but by now, he's come to expect it._

_Batman's words trouble him—not because they've surprised him, but because they_ _**haven't** _ _, not at all, and he can't do anything about it. The police force has identified three sites so far—five with Batman's assistance—and there could be any number of others out there. The news is already telling people to look out for the smiley faces, but there's only so much they can do without inciting panic. Gordon's hands are tied, and until the entire city has been combed, he can't do anything for Emma, and if the Joker really_ _**is** _ _using these explosions as a diversion so that he can get to her…_

_He prays that it's all a coincidence, ignoring the fact that he doesn't believe in coincidence, and turns to go back to his car._

* * *

Time seems to slow down. I stare through the bars and down the aisle at him, and even as he squirms in the policeman's grip, he's staring right back at me. He's giving Eli a hard time of it, but it seems clear to be that he's not making a genuine effort. Because, of course, this is part of his plan.

The clown that first day, the one that had advised me to cooperate, that everything that happens is _always_ part of the Joker's plan—he was right. The Joker has been meticulous in mapping up his scheme, covering every detail, including—I'm certain—whatever has drawn almost all of the cops out of the police station.

The emotion that has been suspended in his absence comes crashing back at the sight of him. I feel that paralyzing fear again down to my bones—fear, and anger.

"Get that cell open!" Eli shouts as he wrestles the Joker closer.

I grip the bars convulsively. "Eli, _don't you put him next to me_ ," I say sharply, and of course it isn't smart to try giving orders to my captors (it tends to make them contrary), but I don't seem to be in control of my mouth at this moment.

"Shut up," he says, clearly strained, and the Joker is chortling as he puts a sharp elbow in his diaphragm. Eli doubles over as they pass my cell, maintaining his grip but losing total control, and the Joker swings against the front of my cell, making me recoil in fear. He just winks at me, though, just before Eli regains his grip and jerks him back to the center of the aisle. Another police officer comes running, and I mutter "No, no, no" as he opens the cell right next to me. Eli throws the Joker in and slams the door shut, and the Joker immediately thrusts his cuffed hands backwards against the bars.

I can't believe what I'm seeing as Eli actually produces keys and uncuffs him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, are you _serious?"_ I demand, but no one pays me the slightest bit of attention as the cuffs swing off and Eli steps back from the door. _What purpose could freeing his hands_ _ **possibly**_ _serve?_

I follow along as Eli, breathing hard, crosses back in front of my cell to speak to Rodriguez. "You can't put him in an interrogation room?" I ask pleadingly, glancing sideways at the Joker, who is rubbing his wrists and pulling a face that looks half-disappointed and half-disgruntled, communicating something along the lines of _you're hurting my feelings and who said I wanted anything to do with you anyway?_

Eli looks briefly at me, and I see something flickering behind his eyes—calculation, cold and hard, and I suddenly understand why he's put him next to me, why he removed the cuffs. This is a great way to observe how the Joker interacts with me. It might be temptation enough even just for a curious mind who wonders how the past meetings have gone down, but add to the fact that I'm a suspect, and the opportunity to watch us in the same space, able to see and talk but unable to do much damage to one another, is irresistible.

Oh, I understand it, but I immediately hate Eli for being willing to make me into an experiment. He just shakes his head a little bit, and I imagine I can see something malevolent in his eyes right before he turns and goes over to Rodriguez, exchanging some whispered words with him, before leaving the holding area.

Slowly, I turn to face the Joker. His expression has changed, lips pressed together and mouth turned down in the universal _what'reya-gonna-do_ expression, and I shake my head. "No."

He cocks his head sharply to the side. "No?"

"No," I say, and slowly lower myself to the floor in the very front and center of the cell, several feet away from both barred walls, unwilling to turn my back on him but certainly turning my _side_ to him, hugging my knees, and closing my eyes. _If I refuse to engage…_

… _his plans will still go off without a hitch,_ my brain says, but I ignore it. I refuse to over-think this. Right now, I am relatively safe, unless he can break through prison bars. As long as I can stay here, four feet away from him and fully out of his reach, then maybe I can stay okay.

_Never mind the fact that he obviously wants to be here, meaning that you're shit out of luck._

I'm too tired to try to contradict the thought. I just sit stiffly and work on not acknowledging his existence in the slightest.

You don't ignore a creature like the Joker. He takes it personally. Even if he didn't, he has this unnerving tendency—I'm seriously picking up on it now that we're sharing the place with several other 'normals'—to absorb all of the energy in the room and just… _project it_ through his eyes, his fingertips. You don't ignore the Joker.

But I'm going to damn well try. And I'm getting a decent start of it, too. I hear little shuffling noises from his cell, and then silence. This lasts for a few minutes, and I'm just starting to try to persuade myself that maybe it's all a coincidence, maybe he really does have no interest in fucking with me this time (I can't believe it, but I'm trying to for the sake of the remaining shreds of my sanity), when—

"Hey, Em."

Silly of me.

His voice carries in the mostly-quiet jail, but then, I think it would carry anywhere. I don't respond, but while he may quite _enjoy_ an interactive audience, he's not the sort that _needs_ it in order to proceed with the act.

"Is that the same shirt you were wearing when we met?"

 _Just ignore him,_ I think, but my forehead creases as I realize that this shirt, though definitely not the one I wore to the bank that day, resembles it a good deal. _Great_. I bet you anything he twists it to mean something it's not.

"It _looks_ like it. I've never been one for… ah, _sentimentality_ , but I'll make an exception in this case. You look good in green. Ya look good covered in _soot,_ too." His tone is one of a man graciously dispensing a fine compliment despite the inflammatory nature of the words, the sharp reminder of the train incident I've just been through, and I fight the urge to glare at him, keeping my eyes tightly closed. I hear him shift and move in his cell.

"Ya know, this is more like it," he continues, quite as if I'd shown a willingness to converse. "The last time I was in jail, it was _weird_. Holding cells in the middle of everything, no _privacy_ … ya wanna know what the interrogation rooms looked like?" I don't say anything. He goes ahead anyway. "Like… _dungeons_. Cement walls and big security door 'n everything."

The anger flickers again, and before I can help myself, I say, without opening my eyes, "I'm sure you would know."

He chuckles again and then falls silent. I'm just about to hope that maybe he'll give me a few minutes' peace when he says, "Hey, Em."

 _Fucking hell, he's like an annoying roommate._ Normally, I'd be too petrified to even _think_ disrespectful thoughts, certain that he could sense it, but thoughts like that are easier to have in these circumstances. If he wants to come get me, he's got to break out of his cell and then break _into_ mine. It's about as secure as I _can_ be around him.

Don't think for a second that I believe I'm safe. No one in Gotham is safe from him, especially if they get in his way. No, I am simply allowing myself to be lulled into a false sense of security so that I don't fret myself to death. After all, how anticlimactic would it be if a stress-induced heart attack finished me off?

…actually not a bad idea, considering he seems so determined to kill me through tricks and traps. At least it would deprive him of the satisfaction—unless, of course, he decided to take credit for the stress that _caused_ the heart attack, which he could certainly do if he chose.

_And we're back to square one._

" _Eh-_ em?"

 _Shit, he's still waiting for a reply._ Still keeping my eyes shut, I say, "Yes?"

"Didja like your present?"

I've been doing so well, but at this, I can't stop myself. I open my eyes and turn my head to look at him. He's standing up against our shared wall, almost in the exact center, pointedly uncuffed arms laced carelessly through the bars, fingertips relaxed and pointed towards the ground. Looking at him, it seems to me as if he's… humming with nervous energy, which puts me immediately on my guard, because I don't think the Joker gets nerves, which means something else must be going on.

Then again, if there were ever a place for him to develop nerves, it'd be in the middle of a Gotham City jail.

I ignore the question. It's the only thing I can do, and to distract myself from it, I glance away, looking over at the screens, trying to account for how many police officers are still in the station. Eli is visible in an office somewhere in the station, on the phone. Rodriguez is just watching the screens, not even keeping an eye on us, and there are three other police officers that I can see, which, due to the fact that the camera system seems fairly comprehensive, probably means that's all there are.

I feel ill. Trying to distract myself from the sudden rising nausea, I glance back at the Joker and change the subject. "So, what's the plan?"

"Plan?" he repeats, pronouncing the word as if it's foreign to him. I give him a quick, skeptical look, and he twitch-shrugs, abandoning the charade and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Plan's to bust us outta here," he says. "But don't worry. We've got plenty of time to _chat_."

My skin crawls, and trying to get rid of the disconcerting feeling, I get up and start pacing, still keeping to the center of the cell. "How'd you get caught?" I ask distractedly. "Aren't you supposed to be some sort of modern-day Houdini? Like, isn't that your thing?"

"Hmm," he hums, and I glance up to see that his eyes are following me. All his other little ticcy movements have ceased—right now, it's just the eyes, the whites rolling back and forth dramatically between the black paint and their dark centers, and the result is almost enough to make me stop moving. Having those eyes trained on you like you're some kind of food is nothing if not disconcerting. "You know," he says suddenly, "you're not really… uh… answering my question."

"What," I say, "about your 'present?'" A quick glance at him, and he just nods, mouth turned down, looking uncharacteristically solemn. I don't trust it. "Well, how do you _think_ I feel?" It comes out a bit more snappish than is perhaps wise, but fortunately, he doesn't seem to take offense.

Instead, he looks perplexed. "Me? How'm _I_ supposed to know? That's why I asked _you_."

I shake my head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, now, come on," he wheedles. "I went through _all_ that trouble, and you 'don't want to talk about it?'" The false perplexity just gets more elaborate, and he spreads his hands—hands that are still in _my_ cell, might I add. "What gives, Em?"

I turn, stop pacing, cross my arms tightly over my chest, and stare at him. I become aware that at some point, the fear has melted away—all I feel now is a cold rage, almost bereft of fear (and therefore almost bereft of wisdom). "What _gives_?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding once, encouragingly.

"You want to talk about your 'present'?" I spit, trying to sound as threatening as I possibly can in the vain, vague hope that maybe he'll give it up and maybe I won't have to deal with the issue I've been avoiding thinking about since it happened.

He doesn't even flinch. He just watches me, unblinking, and lazily, he licks his reddened lips before giving me another short, cocky nod.

At that point, something in me snaps. Never mind that he's earned the right to be as cocky as he damn well pleases, never mind the fact that he's clearly dominating the situation, bars or not—my fear is gone, and its place has been filled with sheer, stupid bravery… or perhaps it's simply the knowledge that I've tried everything else, and though I doubt it, maybe a show of bravado might make him back off (or at the very least make him quit toying with me and get around to properly killing me).

One second, we're four feet apart, but all at once, I'm crashing into the opposite side of the bars he's pressed against, and, even as I see his hands moving dangerously quickly out of the corner of my eye, I completely ignore the thought that maybe I should get the _hell_ back out of his range. No, I reach through the bars and seize him by that lurid green vest at the same time his bony fingers close with bruising force over my shoulders.

The following conversation is quick, violent, and conducted in harsh whispers so we can avoid attracting notice for as long as possible.

"What sort of game are you playing, Joker?"

"Ooh, the _fun_ kind."

"You know what I mean," I snarl, jerking on his lapels. "Why the hell would you offer me that choice and then flip it? What's your point?"

His fingers tighten, sending a flash of white-hot pain down my back as they press against the gauze covering my fresh wounds, and I glare up at him. His lids have lowered so that his eyes are barely more than pits of black, and his teeth are bared as he growls, "Re- _mem_ -ber what I said about listening but not _thinking_ , Em? What has this whole little experiment _always_ been _about_ , huh?"

I wait, but he just gives me a sharp, painful shake, telling me to _think_ , and my mind races to try and dismiss my survival instinct, which is on fire again, screaming at me, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that there's a barrier between us—all it knows is that I'm pressed flush against a killer, damn it, and I need to _run_. I force it all away and make my mind work.

Distantly, I hear Rodriguez call out for backup, noticing what's going on oddly late, but I've realized what the Joker wants me to remember now, and I raise my eyes back to his.

"It's about finding what I value most and then taking it away from me," I say clearly.

"Theeeeere you go," he purrs, and the savagery of his delight makes my bones hum.

I hear the sound of distant footsteps, but I'm almost transfixed now, horrified but unable to look away from the Joker's face.

"It wasn't about killing me—it was a test to determine once and for all if I was a hero or a survivor," I continue. "Rigged game. House always wins, I always lose, no matter what decision I make."

He clicks his tongue, confirming all my guesses. "So now that we've solved that little problem, whaddya say we see what it takes to make you a _survivor_ again?"

In my peripheral vision, I see that two new cops have the holding cell open and are coming at him, but before I can check to see if there are others coming for me, he suddenly locks his arms, angling me backwards away from the bars, and then, maintaining his grip, he jerks me forward again and—

oh, _wow_.

lights are exploding in my eyes and somehow i'm on the ground

i… think he's hurting the police in his cell but the black spots are back and i can't see and—gotta blink them… away.

no, blinking's a bad idea. blinking makes me want to sleep. can't sleep right now, he's coming.

…I… get a hand on the bars and try to… drag myself half-upright. The pain is fading, but the fuzz is still there, and through it, I can see him beating the one of the cops with a nightstick he's gotten from him, his movements jerky and impossibly fast, like a rabid dog's.

But… the others.

Even as the thought strikes me, a gunshot rings out, and, breathing heavily, I turn to look. Rodriguez stands in the cell door, gun drawn, but… he didn't… shoot the Joker. The second cop, backup, lies on the floor in a growing pool of blood, and Rodriguez turns to watch the screens. I follow his gaze, and I see that Eli is tramping through the station and as I watch, he shoots… the only two remaining cops.

I press my eyes shut because I want to puke. The urgency of the situation dispels the nausea, though, and just in time, because as I open my eyes again and try to drag myself to my feet, the Joker is delicately pushing his cell door open and coming towards mine.

Rodriguez turns to meet him, holding out the keys, and the Joker takes them. He looks through the bars at me as he pushes the key in the lock, and I finally get to my feet as he swings the cell door open and waltzes in.

Now is not the time for cowering. The pain in my head and the blood from the police on the ground and the adrenaline pumping all through me make me brave and foolish again, and I lunge at him. He sidesteps, whooping with laughter, and I wheel around as quickly as possible, going for him again.

He jumps aside once more and cries " _Olé_!"

 _I_ _have_ _to **kill him**._

This time, I jump on him, no charging this time, and even though he shifts again, this attack is much quicker and much more potent than the previous two. I clip his shoulder, grab his arm, and nearly take him down, but he stays steady, and with my grip on his arm I'm able to get my feet under me. I'm obviously fighting for my life and he's obviously not, so I manage to get a few good swings in, drumming a couple of hits to his stomach as he scrambles for my hands, but his only reaction is a scream of laughter, though, winded as he is, it's shorter than his usual prolonged howl.

He reaches around me and before I can twist away, he locks his arm around my arms and pins them, squeezing so tightly that I can feel the wounds on the backs of my shoulders opening again and my bones feel like they're being pulverized. Immediately, on sheer instinct, I snap at his exposed throat, but he jerks back just in time to avoid my teeth and gives me a sharp look. "Don't play games if you don't know the _rules_ , Em," he purrs warningly.

I don't try to bite him again. He jerks me almost off my feet and drags me towards the cell door, and even as I reach up to dig my nails into his forearm, I go into dead weight mode. If he's going to drag me along, then he's literally going to have to _drag me along_.

Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to pose much of a challenge for him. For all the trouble he has carrying me, I might as well be no bigger than a child, and he hauls me out of the cell and out of the holding area, appearing to give orders with his movements, expressions and quick jerks of the head, and Eli and Rodriguez (those fucking _traitors_ ) run around grabbing guns from their fellow officers before following.

"They're good actors. You should give them a raise," I say bitterly, slurring just a little bit from the head injury, almost absently trying to plant one of my feet, but he swiftly kicks me in the ankle, making me lose traction on the slick floor. "How long have you had the cops on your payroll?"

"There are _always_ cops on the payroll," he says, just as absently, as he drags me out the front to the curb. "Always—" he continues, voice lifting as the noise of the city surrounds us "a coupla _crazies_ in need of some extra cash. C'mon," he adds, this last as he shoves me up against the back of a cop car, pinning me in place with his hips, and I experience a flash of totally blind, thoughtless panic until I realize that he just needs his hands to get the door open before the push against my lower half relaxes and they're back on me again, roughly twisting me and shoving me into the back.

I start to relax a bit too soon, because he follows me in, and Eli and Rodriguez get in the front right away. I fling myself against the opposite door and feel for a handle, but again—cop car. Not much in the way of escaping the backseat.

The Joker is bending over, retrieving something from the floor, and I can't focus on him just yet—the thought of sharing this small enclosed space with him is simply too scary to even consider, so my mind blanks it out entirely. Instead, I speak to the goons in the front seat. "You been on me from the start?" I ask waspishly, and Eli glances sharply in the rearview mirror. He doesn't reply, so I press forward—"Obviously you were sent after me as soon as I left the house, but the therapy session, was that actually cleared by Gordon or was it just you two clowns working together to get me on that train?"

I may as well not exist for all the response I get. The Joker suddenly straightens up, and I look sharply at him. "You look tired," is all he says. "Why dontchya take a _nap_ , Em?"

He lunges at me, and I only manage a fraction of a scream before my mouth is covered by a wet cloth, and though my brain immediately tells me _that's a chemical, not a safe chemical, don't breathe_ , it's too late. I can feel it; I've got… enough in my system.

I look him square in the eyes until mine close.


	8. Showdown

_You want me?_  
_Well, fuckin' come and find me—_  
_I'll be waiting._  
**_-Radiohead, Talk Show Host ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=furluVy2xbg))_ **

The unconsciousness is not complete, but it _is_ persistent. I stir from its grips long enough to see that we're still on the move—I can see the street lights, blurring together in the dark outside of the car window. My head is resting on something warm and alive, I can feel the weight of _someone's_ forearm lying carelessly across my clavicle, and I can smell smoke, can hear his raspy voice humming away close to my ear.

I let out a weak groan of protest and attempt to sit up. The tuneless humming gives way to absent-minded shushing, and a hand appears in my line of vision, the palm folding over my forehead, almost gentle even as it pulls me firmly back into place. The effort of trying to move, small though it was, has worn me out again, and the drugs have reduced the fear of him to a dull ripple, almost comforting in its familiarity.

 _Strange,_ I think as I give up and let him pull me back again, _strange that it should end this way, me going to sleep with him at my back. That's how this whole mess began._

The darkness overtakes me then, and when I wake next, I can tell I've been in its grips for a long time.

I'm no longer in the car. I can't see very well—the room is dark—but I'm lying on an extremely hard floor and my head is fuzzy. I move slowly, stretching out, instinctively testing for injuries. My back is still sore, and I can feel the crack of dried blood as my skin shifts—certainly the result of the Joker's damaging grip in the jail. My head aches from earlier, but… the rest of me is sound. I can feel no pain anywhere else, and my hair and clothes are undisturbed. I think they just… left me here.

I'm relieved and worried by this development all at once.

Slowly, I sit up. The room is dark, but I can see dim light outlining a door frame across from me. I can't tell if there are any windows, and the sudden paranoid thought that I might not be alone in the room is quickly calmed by the fact that I can hear every little movement I make, and the room is quite silent aside from my own breathing.

That is, until I hear a fuzzy crackle, followed by his voice, obviously transmitted from some sort of electronic device: " _Wakey, wakey_." As the sound reaches me, I see light that wasn't there before—a dim green glow across the room from me, and as I stir towards it, he goes on: "Oh, good, you're up. Right on schedule."

The new source of light, as dim as it is, helps me see the room more clearly, and I can tell that there's nothing on the floor between it and me, so I go over. I reach down and pick it up, and can tell by the feel of it and the shape of the lights that it's a walkie-talkie. It's the simplest possible design, the plastic kind that kids use, which means he's probably somewhere nearby, as there's no way this signal can reach very far.

I feel along the side for the talk button and hold it down, speaking clearly into the device. "Where are you?"

"You know, it's funny you should ask that," he sing-songs, "because I was about to give you some _homework_."

My head hurts. I am in no mood for his games—but then, am I ever? Could anyone _possibly_ enjoy being the subject of his attention? I hold the walkie out, using its limited light to look around. I wonder what's outside that door, decide that I'd rather not find out, and start to seek an alternate way out of this room as he rambles on almost absent-mindedly. "Well, not homework. You have to be home for homework, am I right? More like… _warehouse work_. Remember this, Em?"

Even as he speaks, I finally notice the papers on the floor, the desk and the bundle of blankets rolled together in the corner, and a chill runs up my spine. All at once, I remember my thought in the car minutes ago—hours ago— _hell, maybe days ago, who knows?_

The point is that I was right. I'm back where this all started. We've come full circle. This means that the game is about to end, that one of us is going to die tonight, and I'm willing to bet it won't be him.

The Joker's voice prods me, exaggeratedly disappointed. "Are you _listening_ , Em?"

I press the talk button. "What do you want me to do?"

He chuckles, _hee-hee-hee-hee_ , and says, "Straight to business. This is gonna be fun."

"I'm sure it'll be a blast," I say bitterly, having revised my stance on disrespect towards the Joker in the few seconds since the realization that good behavior won't keep me alive any longer first started to sink in. "But I still don't know what this is all about."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm filling you in _right_ _now_." I refrain from pointing out that he's not, actually, as it will only defer his explanation, and after a second, he continues: "You ever play hide 'n seek?"

"Sure," I say, edging to the far wall and checking to see if there are perhaps some boarded-up windows I missed, because I'm damn sure that leaving through the door is a bad idea.

"It's fun, huh?"

"Super-fun." _No windows. Damn._ Now that I'm moving, though, I can see a black shape on the floor in the corner closest to the door—a small shape, and hopefully, I move towards it. Maybe it's something I can use as a weapon.

"But it's a _kid's game_ ," he says, affecting scorn. "You don't wanna play _a kid's game_ , do you?"

"Well, am I wrong in thinking that a kid's game would be a lot easier than whatever you've got in mind?"

He chuckles. "Here's the deal, Em. You come find me. Hey, I'll _time_ ya, make it interesting."

I don't think for a second that this will be as innocuous as he's making it sound. Doubtless the warehouse is full of tricks and traps meant to torment me while he watches. I'm about to make another flippant remark about the Saw series, but I've reached the corner with the black shape, and I stoop, carefully reaching for it. My fingers close over cool, heavy metal. I find a switch and click it, and I'm rewarded with a powerful beam of light. It's a Maglight, a heavy flashlight like what cops carry.

"And _that_ is a present for you," he says genially. "I didn't _have_ to give you a light, you know."

"Thank you," I say automatically, and without pausing to question whether or not I mean it, I stand again. "Let me just ask you one question, okay?"

"Mmmmmmm… shoot."

"Why the hell are you doing this?"

He sighs on his end, deliberately making the static blare painfully in my ear. "I seem to remember having this conversation at _least_ twice before. Guy like me, you know, he doesn't like repeating himself."

"Yeah, sure, you gave me an answer, but you never convinced me it was the _truth_."

" _Convincing_ you is… mm, not my _job_ , Em."

"Granted, but humor me. There's no way this is all about me. I'm nothing. I'm _nobody_."

"Mmm. That's interesting. So was I."

That gives me pause, but I remember the comments he's made about not trying to anchor him to some sob story or some origin legend well enough that I have no intention of dwelling on it. I speak again: "This isn't about me. This is about you, and I think it always has been. I mean, how bored _are_ you now that the Batman's gone underground?" I release the button, but receive no reply, so I figure I might as well go on. "What do you think, huh? That maybe you can lure him out again by stringing the eviscerated corpse of some random girl up over the spotlight that used to be his signal?"

This time, the response is immediate. He tsks into the walkie and says, "Good idea, but vivisection is _so_ much more _fun_. I could show you. But first, you gotta find me." He pauses, and then coaxingly, he adds, "Come on, Em. Once more, for old time's sake. One last experiment. _Survive._ "

I sigh and rub the Maglight against my forehead distractedly, frowning when it brushes against a tender spot—doubtless a bruise from my collision with the cell bars earlier. He's not willing to be distracted from his goal tonight, not willing to make this about him and the Batman (though I can't help but imagine the vigilante plays at least a small role in his machinations), and for one brief second, I hate Batman more than I've ever hated the Joker, hate him for dropping off of the face of the planet, for killing Harvey Dent and abandoning Gotham and forcing the Joker to look elsewhere for entertainment.

The irrational moment passes. Blaming Batman more than I blame the Joker makes absolutely no sense—after all, he's not the one that shut me up in a warehouse, forcing me to play games I have little hope of surviving. This is the Joker's fault, not Batman's.

I press the walkie button again. "Hypothetically, of course, what happens if I just… sit here and refuse to move?"

" _Hypothetically_ ," he says, sounding regretful, "I'd have to bar you in and burn the place down, and where's the fun in _that_?"

"Where, indeed," I mutter, and clip the walkie onto my belt. I'm aware that it could be most unhelpful if I need to be quiet and the Joker doesn't _want_ me to be quiet, but I might need to get in touch with him. For purely practical reasons, I don't want to throw away my only tie to the games master.

_Well. Looks like I'm doing this._

I could make good on my bluff, of course, sit down and resign myself to death by fire (because I'm sure _he_ wasn't bluffing) rather than death by… probably something decidedly less pleasant. However, even though I know the odds are very good that I'm going to die tonight, I still have that stubborn little spark of a survivalist in me, unwilling to just sit back and let it happen. I'm done with being passive. If I die tonight, I'm going to take as much of that bastard's blood with me as I possibly can.

It helps that the torture-porn films of the last thirty, forty years are all wrong. After enough time passes, you stop screaming. After enough time, the fear almost completely burns itself out. I have no doubt that it'll flare back to life at the least convenient moment, but once again, it has evacuated and cold serenity has replaced it. I get my Maglight, which weighs about eight pounds and can be used as a weapon if I need it, and I direct the beam around the room, making sure there's nothing else I can use (there isn't).

I go to the door and slowly pull it open.

One dim light is on in the hallway outside. I recognize it vaguely from my time here a month ago, from the transfer from conference room to Joker's makeshift bedroom. I never got a look at the main part of the building, the warehouse part, as I was blindfolded on the way through, but I've seen warehouses before. A lot of them have roof access, and considering that I'm almost certainly barred in, I imagine it's likely that my only chance of escape is from up top.

All I can do is try to get a look. I try to ignore the fact that I can smell gasoline and press forward.

The flashlight definitely does me good, but it's still insufficient. How am I supposed to watch my path when I'm trying to keep my eyes ahead to identify any waiting henchmen? This is a problem I really start taking seriously when I round the first corner and my toes brushing against something cold and metal is the only warning I have to jump back before the bear trap lying directly in my path snaps shut with such force that it actually jumps off of the ground.

"A fucking bear trap?!" I howl to nobody in particular.

Wild cackling erupts from the device at my hip. "Watch out for that first step, Em. It's a doozy!"

"Oh, great, he can drop Groundhog Day references but mention Saw and I get nothing but crickets," I growl, nudging the now locked trap roughly out of my way. After this, I think it's probably wisest to check the floor all the way along my path before shining the beam up to examine everything at eye level.

This works for the hallway, but once I emerge into the warehouse, things get complicated.

For one thing, the warehouse is… vast. Granted, I have more illumination, since the sparse, narrow windows along the tops of the walls let in some of the light from the surrounding city, but let's face it—as far as major cities go, Gotham City is pretty dark. There are thousands of little corners where anyone could hide, and it doesn't help that the place is packed with full shelves and storage units.

I have to find the doors. I have to check and make sure they're locked before I risk trying to find a way to the roof.

I don't feel good about waltzing right into this dark warehouse, though. Right now, the door's at my back, so I'm in a good position to hunt for traps. I stand still as I sweep my beam slowly over everything in sight.

The light actually goes past him at first, because I'm not expecting him to be so close. I have to sweep quickly back to the stack closest to me to confirm that I saw what I saw—a tall figure, just standing there, shoulders slightly hunched, wearing a vivid red, white, and green clown mask.

I stare for a second, waiting for the fear, but I only feel the barest flicker. This isn't the Joker, after all, and isn't he determined to kill me himself? "Holy shit," I blurt out finally when the henchman's shoulders slowly rise as he breathes, "it's like a fucking horror movie."

This seems to break some kind of spell. He lunges at me, and I instinctively recoil, but he doesn't need an accurate collision so much as just a heavy hit. He gets me around the waist and takes me down to the floor. I bring my hand up and around, swinging with my Maglight, aiming for his head, but he catches my wrist before it can make contact and jerks it forcefully. I lose my grip on the flashlight, and it slides across the floor, out of my reach.

The light stays on, but the beam is pointing uselessly in the opposite direction. I'm alone in the dark, and as a stinging backhand connects with my face and I taste blood, the thought strikes me that maybe the Joker's not so attached to the idea of killing me personally after all. The thought incites panic, and I lash out with my unrestrained arm, aiming roughly for my attacker's face. My hand makes contact, but I'm too panicked to have made a proper fist, and the mask he's wearing doubtless pads the blow so much that it's mostly ineffective.

I receive another blow, this one a punch that makes my jaw explode in pain, and I scrabble at the mask, ripping the rubber with the force of my grip and prying it off before going at him with my fingernails. I hear a muffled roar as my lashing hand makes contact, cutting deep into his cheek, and suddenly I receive a blow to the temple that makes the world spin and reduces my control over my body.

I'm still fully conscious, but my hands are no longer obeying me, falling limply to the floor. _No, no, no, get up, get up_ , I think fiercely as my eyelids flutter, as if threatening to seal shut on me, but my body doesn't listen. All this head trauma cannot be good.

He seems encouraged by my lack of response. The hand clamped around my wrist lets go, and I can feel him shifting above me. I groan lightly, still dazed, but the dizziness dries up when I feel his fingers at my jeans, unfastening the button scary-fast and jerking down the zipper.

That wakes me right up. A jolt of adrenaline has my eyes snapping open, and I jerk my knee upwards. The blow to his groin is solid, and he bellows, getting another slap in before keeling over with the pain, falling practically on top of me. I feel at his waist for something, anything that I can use, and when I feel cold metal—gun handle—I unsnap the holster faster than I would have thought possible and jerk it out.

I squeeze the trigger right away, as the gun comes out of the holster pointed towards his torso, but the gun just makes a disappointing click. _Safety, it's always the safety in the movies,_ I think, and thinking fast, trying to remember what I know of the movies, I run my fingers along the side of the gun. By this point, he realizes what I'm doing, and though he's still mostly incapacitated, he reaches up and grabs the barrel of the gun, trying to wrest it out of my hands.

His mistake is that he tries this right as I find a little square jutting out from the side of the gun, and, all in what feels like one motion, I push on it, it slides in with a neat little click, and I pull the trigger. Twice.

I can't see, but I can feel the spatter of blood, and I imagine the first would have taken off his fingers, while the second would have entered his gut. He lets loose an awful sound and throws himself backwards, away from me, and, holding on to the gun for dear life, I drag myself upright, shuffling backwards as quickly as I can, getting some distance between us before I get to my feet and run for the flashlight.

I shine it immediately on my assailant, and some part of my mind is totally unsurprised to find Eli there, cheek gaping open from the bloody scratches I inflicted on him, clutching his blood-soaked stomach and moaning. I shake my head. The temptation to shoot him again, this time in the head, enters my mind again, but I immediately decide against it—not for any moral reason, but because I doubt he's much of a threat with a stomach wound and I need to save these bullets. Who knows how many more of them there will be?

"Serves you right, asshole," I snarl, nestling the flashlight beneath my chin and keeping the gun in hand as I reach down to zip up my pants.

The walkie at my waist crackles to life. "Hey, 'member what I said about sexual violation, Em?"

I press the talk button. "Yeah," I snap, "we're just stumbling upon all kinds of neat little parallels tonight, aren't we?" I've got too much on my plate to think about this right now, though. I move past Eli and keep going.

This time I hold the flashlight close to eye level, bringing the gun up to match it, like I've seen on every cop show I've ever watched (which probably means it's totally the wrong thing to do, but it makes me feel safer, so I'll stick with it). I head to the nearest warehouse wall without incident, and I follow it along, searching for a door.

I find one. Unfortunately, it's locked, and I don't feel like testing its strength with my shoulders, which still ache from the glass. I keep walking, trying to ignore the noises I think I hear from behind me, and when they get a little too worrying, I swing around and fling my flashlight beam all over the visible space.

Nothing.

I turn back slowly, still following the wall. If Eli was here, that probably means Rodriguez is around, too, and who knows how many more anonymous Joker henchmen might be on the grounds? So far, though, I haven't found evidence of anyone but Eli, even _if_ those noises are unsettling. I focus on moving quickly, on finding a way out.

The front door is locked, too. I've got one more wall to search before I'll be driven into finding a way up, which I don't want to do—I have no idea if there will be any real way down from the roof, and once I'm up there, I could well be stuck—but it's the only option I can think of aside from using myself as a human battering ram.

Halfway along the last wall, my beam comes to rest on a red gasoline can. I stare at it, trying to think if I've got any use for it, before becoming aware to the fact that there are footsteps creeping up behind me—quietly, as if he's trying to sneak up, but quickly. I wheel around to find that a clown I suspect must be Rodriguez is almost upon me, and I pull the trigger, but despite the close range, I'm still not comfortable with guns and the shot goes wide.

He collides with me and takes me down, but even as he gropes for my wrist, I re-orient the gun and pull the trigger again.

This one doesn't go wide. This one tears through the mask and goes in through his right eye socket, and as he falls on top of me, his blood spatters from the hole in the mask onto my face. I shove him off fast, but the blood is already there, and it feels like it's burning into my skin.

I stagger to my feet and look back at him. There's no way _he's_ still alive—he's lying facedown, blood already beginning to seep out of the bottom of his mask and settling in a pool around his throat. _Head wounds bleed a lot_ , I tell myself mechanically, reciting some random piece of trivia I'd picked up somewhere.

 _It was him or me,_ comes the next thought, brutally.

The Joker's voice comes from the walkie at my waist, this time with considerably less static. "Hey, you know, you're _good_ at this. Look at you, you're not even puking your guts out. Ever killed a man before?"

Since he can obviously see me, I shake my head. "Hmm," he says. "You wanna job?"

I press the talk button. "Will it help me live longer?"

"Probably not. The life expectancy of my employees is… brief."

"Color me surprised," I say dryly, but I'm only half-focused on the discussion. The walkie-talkie… the fact that his voice is coming through loud and clear means that the signal is strong, which in turn must mean that he's somewhere nearby, a lot closer than he was before. If I had to guess, I'd say he's in some kind of surveillance room, somewhere where he can watch the screens. How else could he offer a running commentary on everything I do?

I start to move along the wall again, but think twice and go back to kick over the can of gasoline. The stuff starts pulsing out onto the floor, immediately filling my nose with its pungent smell, and I find a box of matches on some nearby shelves. _It's like he set me up for this_ , I think, but rather than worry about whether or not I'm falling into his plan as usual, I make sure my feet are well away from the growing pool of gasoline—which is starting to creep around Rodriguez's prone body—and then light a match and toss it.

The gas goes up immediately, so fast and bright that I flinch away, jumping back and covering my face. _There,_ I think, lowering my hands. _Maybe that'll smoke him out._ At the very least, it'll be easier for me to see my way and harder for _him_ to see _me_. The thought that I might be torching my own path out of here _does_ cross my mind, but I don't dwell on it. My odds of survival aren't so great anyway, and the way I see it, setting the place on fire has more advantages than disadvantages.

"Ooh, a steel stomach _and_ pyromania," the Joker sings out. "You _sure_ you don't want a job?"

"Why don't we discuss it in person?"

"Good idea. Come on, Em. You're getting warmer. Uh, no pun intended."

"Oh, good. Fun," I mutter. I figure I should just keep following along this wall, since it's the only part of the perimeter of the warehouse I haven't seen and I'd _really_ like to avoid going into the center. It's too cluttered, too full of product-slammed stacks and there could be any number of potential traps waiting for me there. I'll see what I can find along the edge first.

About halfway to the back of the penthouse, I find a door. This door, unlike the others, is unlocked, and swings silently open to reveal a staircase—a _long_ staircase, hemmed in narrowly by two solid walls.

I stare at it for a second, and something in me whispers _stairs + dark = creepy, bad news, whatever_. I actually take a step back from the door before the Joker's voice stops me.

"Ooh, colder."

I pause, then step forward.

"Warmer again."

_Damn it._

I take a deep breath. The fear flares up again, but it's nowhere near as cripplingly potent as it was the first time I was stuck in this warehouse with him. I plunge forward and start taking the stairs in long lopes, two at a time, which, considering my less-than-impressive height, takes some doing.

"Warmer. Warmer. _Hot._ Oh, you're doing _great_ , Em. You're _burning up_."

At these last two words, I reach the door at the top of the long staircase, and I can hear him talking on the other side. I inhale sharply, then twist the knob and push the door open.

I was right. It's a surveillance room, and the opposite wall is lit up entirely with screens, turned green with the cameras' night vision. The Joker is sitting slouched in a swivel chair in front of them, and at the creaky sound the door makes as it opens, he spins the chair around and leans back in it, looking very satisfied with himself, fingers steepled together in his lap. The screens provide the only light in the room, reflecting off the white face paint and turning his face a ghoulish green.

"Aaaaaand… you're _on fire_."

Neither of us says anything for a second after that. _I'm_ waiting for some indication as to how this is supposed to go down, while I imagine _he_ just enjoys the tension, the little ripples of fear that must be emanating from me.

I become aware that my breathing is picking up, and I make a conscious effort to slow it down. _This is not like any of the times before it_ , I tell myself in an effort to stay calm. _This is the end of the game, and this time,_ _ **you've**_ _got the gun._

At the memory, I lift the gun slightly, but he may as well not see it for all the reaction I get. He just stays sitting uncharacteristically still, eyes fixed on me.

"Well," he drawls finally, "are you… happy with the results of our little test?"

"Are _you_?" I fire back immediately, unblinking.

There's a slight squelching sound as he lifts his top lip from his teeth for a second—acknowledgement or a threat or… hell, I don't know. I'm starting to think twice about this whole gun thing. It was a lot easier to pull the trigger when it was all so immediate, do or die, no planning involved.

I finally notice the second door, beside the wall of screens, slightly ajar. I gesture towards it with my gun. "Does that lead to the roof?"

"Ye _p_."

"So you're between me and the way out."

"Looks like it."

I twitch my hand, making a sharp, short motion with the gun. "Move."

He blinks, but aside from that remains perfectly still. We stare at one another, and finally, he speaks up again. "You're a _strange_ sort of person, Em, you know that? Ya thought you were giving up your life for those _nice people_ on the train, but when it comes to.. uh… knockin' off a coupla _cops_ , you don't even flinch."

"Those weren't cops. Those were minions, and they'd have raped and killed me given half the chance."

"So that makes it… _okay_?"

"You're damn right, it does. I look like a martyr to you?"

"No," he says slowly, drawing the word out, relishing it, which makes me rethink that question, wondering if it had some sort of hidden meaning that I neglected to notice before speaking it. "No," he says again, words suddenly coming out all at once, all but tripping over each other, "which is why that little scene on the train _puzzles_ me so much. You know, I was thinking about it, Em. _Why_ would a woman who's worked so hard to survive just… _give up_ all of a sudden?"

I watch him, waiting for the slightest movement that might have the benefit of scaring me into pulling the trigger, but he remains totally motionless—except for his face, the muscles knitting and contorting themselves into a taunting expression, eyebrows raised, mouth folded almost playfully.

"Go on," I say, just to make him wipe that look off of his face. "Tell me."

The expression melts, leaving his eyes curiously empty, lips pulled into a natural resting frown that entirely contrasts with the upwards curve of his scars. Suddenly eerily calm, he says, "I think you _knew_ the station was rigged. I think you figured it out and you sent those folks to their _dismal deaths_ so you could go on _living_ , just for one more day."

I don't even blink. "That's bullshit."

He suddenly doubles over, laughing, a loud cackle that makes me jump, but my finger is steady on the trigger. "Oh—oh," he says, pulling in large gulps of air, "but _is_ it? I mean, you watch the news, right? You've heard about my little _switcheroos_. Some part of you _had_ to know. Even if you didn't _think_ it, deep down, part of you put the stories together with the things you've heard me say… and you offered them up. Lambs to the _slaughter_."

"That isn't fucking true," I spit out.

_It's not._

"Oh, come on, Em. It's okay if you admit to it; we're all _killers_ here. If it makes you feel any better, it's much less _boring_ this way."

"I'm _not_ admitting to it because it isn't true."

He swivels sideways in his chair and then and rolls his eyes back over to rest on me, giving me a look that says _bullshit_ as clearly as if he'd spoken it. "Then why dontchya tell me what anyone's ever _done_ for you that makes you wanna give up your life to save _someone else_."

I hesitate. I can't figure out where he's going with this, what he's doing. _Why isn't he trying to kill me?_

As if he heard the thought, he stands abruptly—one second he's in the chair, the next he's out of it, and before I quite have time to adjust, he's taken the first step towards me.

"Don't even think about it," I snarl, hefting the gun threateningly and bringing him to a stop.

"Too late," he says, and gives me another one of those _bullshit_ looks. "What, Em, are you gonna shoot me?"

"That's the idea."

"No, you're _not_ ," he says resolutely, "and I'll tell you why." He pauses, and the skin around his eyes crinkles, reflecting his amusement as he adds, "Actually, it's related to my previous point. _Funny_ how things work out, isn't it?"

He takes another step forward, and I breathe in sharply through my nose, but he's talking again as he approaches, and I can't seem to make my damn finger squeeze the trigger. "You're a _loner_ , Em. A _true_ loner. I don't know if it's… ahhhh… your _choice_ , or if you just really don't like _people_ , but what I _do_ know is that aside from misguided gestures towards the police department, you haven't called for help from _anyone_. In fact, almost all of the inter-personal contact you've had with _anyone_ in the last couple a' weeks has been with… well, _me_."

He's close now, just inches away from the barrel of the gun. _Shoot him,_ I will myself, _shoot him or he'll get it away and then he'll kill you, just like he promised_ , but I'm watching his mad eyes as they roll in his head and I feel paralyzed, like I'm no longer in control of my body, like his words are some sort of voodoo binding me.

He looks straight down into my eyes, blinks almost sarcastically, and licks his lips. "You're not a _hero_ , Em. You never _have_ been. You sabotaged the test results from the _start_. Diverting my attention from, uh, from that little girl? You weren't _saving her_. No, no, no, no—you _wanted_ my attention."

"No," I whisper.

He leans into my face and snarls, "Yes."

I recoil, and my back hits the door.

"That's why you're not gonna _shoot_ me," he says, and at this, his hand lashes up like a striking cobra, taking the gun out of my hand with a powerful wrench. I feel the strength leaving my knees, my shoulders, deflating as he examines the gun with feigned interest before tossing it aside, again completely neglecting his gun safety. It clatters to the floor across the room and lies there uselessly.

Having discarded the gun, the Joker turns back to me. He lunges for me, and I have nowhere to go. He gets one hand around my throat and produces a knife out of nowhere with the other, but finally, finally, that need to struggle for my survival has vanished without a trace, and the feeling of relief and being unburdened by it is dizzying. Almost in celebration of this, I find myself ignoring the knife at my throat, lifting my hands up within the imprisoning bars formed by his arms and reaching up to touch him. These movements make perfect sense to me at the moment, and he tolerates them even as he rests the blade against my skin, waiting patiently and watching me with a flicker of curiosity as I brush my fingertips against the sticky greasepaint below his eyes, then lower my hands to lightly touch the rough skin of the red scars.

 _No,_ I think, and drop my hands lower, fingers resting along the sides of his unpainted throat. _There._ I can feel the heat rolling off of him, just like it did on that first day when it kept me warm, and beneath my fingertips, I can feel the quick beat of his pulse. My lips part, I exhale slowly, and I close my eyes, just for a second. "You really _are_ human," I whisper. He cocks his head a little, and I shake mine. " _How?"_

"Oh, Em," he says, and I open my eyes to see him looking at me with the closest thing to genuine pity I've ever seen from him. "I am the _embodiment_ of humanity. Everyone else is just _lying._ And that includes _you._ "

I stare at him and slowly drop my hands, pressing them against the door behind me, slouching bonelessly against it. He goes on in a sibilant hiss. "You're lying to _yourself_ most of all, you know that? You may be a loner, Em, but everyone's got that one person—that _single_ person whose attention they just… oh, they _need_ it."

 _Since I'm going to die anyway_ , I think, and, looking him in the eyes, I ask, "Who's yours?"

"Don't change the subject," he says reprovingly, but I know already. Everyone knows. He feeds off of the Batman. I don't think he meant to be quite so forthcoming—but "they need it;" it's tipped his hand, not that I can do anything with the knowledge that he has practically admitted his dependence on Batman.

"Ah… where was I?" he muses now, looking a bit lost.

I swallow, feeling his rough palm scraping against my throat. "Everyone has a single person."

"Right, right, right, right. You're totally _alone_ in this city, Em, then suddenly you're the focus of—ahem—the most dangerous man _here_." He pauses and tilts his head, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. "Don't tell me you weren't flattered."

Tears are pushing their way out of my eyes, but I feel strangely calm, feel completely unconnected to the crying. It's a weird sensation. Steadily, I ask him, "Are you gonna kill me now?"

"Oh, no, no, why would I want to _kill_ you? That was the end to a _different_ game than the one _you've_ been playing, Em. Silly me—I didn't realize you'd _switched_ on me. Now that we're on the same page, we can _really_ get started, and given that I'm not exactly _strapped for time,_ well—I'm willing to give you _plenty_ of my attention."

I stare at him. I say, "The last two days—and the two events before it—have been a living hell. You made me a prisoner inside of this city." He nods, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "You turned the police against me."

"Yeah," he agrees with another nod.

"You violated my home. You threatened to sexually assault me. You tried to make me responsible for the deaths of ten people." Each new accusation is met with a nod, and my voice rises in response to his calm acceptance. "You ripped me from a police station, you drugged me, you put me in your little funhouse and set your sick rapist minions on me, you made me shoot men— _tell me_ , Joker, why _exactly_ do you think that would promote _any_ sort of need or desire for your attention?"

He pulls a thoughtful face, nodding a little bit as he watches the ceiling as if it can give him the answer, then with a flick of the eyes his attention is focused unswervingly on me, and he leans in, voice dropping to a guttural growl as he says, "Because _I'm the only friend you've got_."

I stare at him, looking from eye to eye for a second before relaxing my gaze. Finally, softly, I say, "I think _he_ might have something to say about that."

I don't think many people have seen the look of sheer surprise I now see flashing across his face for a split second, right before he twists around and receives a granite fist to the face. His hands slip away from me as he goes flying, and I scramble in the other direction, sticking close to the wall and away from the massive black shadow filling up the room.

I see another odd look on his face as he recovers somewhat, twisting around to face the shadow descending on him. It's only there for a second before he gets punched again, but it's easily identifiable—rapture. I don't even figure anymore now that the Batman's here. I was Candyland. Batman is Risk.

Still, I'm not taking any chances. I keep the entire room between them and me, and as Batman hoists the Joker into the air and flings him into the opposite wall, close to me, I scurry across the room to recover the space. I may not be tempting as a toy anymore, but I probably have some value as a hostage.

"Ohhhh," croons the Joker, sounding pained and overjoyed all at once. "Where have _you_ been? Brooding away as your own _guano_ piles up around you?" Batman swings at him; he dodges left and flips the knife around in his grip, but his attempt to jam it between Batman's armor plates is fruitless—the blade cracks against the armor as Batman shifts just in time.

"You _know_ ," the Joker sings, whooping with laughter as he dances across the room (and I keep moving away from them), "it took you a while to _find_ her. Getting rusty in your retirement? Harvey woulda been _flattered_."

Batman roars and brings a fierce fist down on the Joker's shoulder, knocking him to his knees before following up with a kick to the stomach.

I realize as I watch that there is no contest. The Joker has no henchmen to assist him, and as far as I can tell, he didn't plan for this, didn't think Batman would actually show up for just a kidnapped girl. Physically, Batman is superior, and he will win. That's all. This fight is already over, and… oddly enough, I don't want to stick around to watch it.

I don't need to see the Joker beaten and incarcerated. It's strange, but I don't. It might be worth sticking around to say thank you to my unexpected savior, but rumor has it he doesn't hang around any longer than _he_ has to, either. This is over for me.

I edge my way around the raging fight and reach the slightly-open door to the roof, doubtless Batman's means of entry. I don't look back at the two of them. I take the stairs up to the roof, then find the fire escapes along the side and somehow find the energy to climb down to the outside street. The warehouse is boarded up, but it's already starting to smoke. Almost absently, I hope that Batman is able to take the Joker out quickly so he doesn't have to worry about the floor caving in on him.

My fear is gone. I'm alive, and even if by some miracle the Joker escapes this fight, I don't think he's going to be too concerned with hunting me down again, not now that his long-beloved nemesis has reappeared and is paying attention to him again. Even if he _did_ come after me again, he doesn't seem interested in killing me anymore.

And I don't give a shit if he _is_ the only person I have in this world. Next time he turns up in my house, he'd better hope I don't have a gun on hand. Next time, I won't let any qualms get in the way—I will shoot him.

With any luck, though, he'll be committed to Arkham and kept there this time. With any luck, he'll forget all about this, now that his obsession with the Batman has been reignited.

The police might come looking for me now, but as I walk to the road, for once not taking the slightest notice of potential muggers or murderers, I find I don't care. Let them come for me if they have to.

I'm alive, and the sun is coming up.

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the start, this is how I always intended for it to end—with Emma walking away from the titans as they fight it out, the Joker's interest in her evaporating as quickly as it flared up. And this was meant to be the definitive ending, because I figured Emma's been through more than enough and deserves some peace, but the Joker doesn't ever listen to me. He surprised me in the ending of this chapter, and his line about the ending of the old game just leading to the beginning of a new one was particularly telling.
> 
> Essentially, what I'm left with is this—Emma's story is not over. Oh, this installment of it certainly is, the sort of last dying gasp of Emma as she was before things change irrevocably (as they must after such an ordeal), and anyway, I figure she deserves a break for now, as do all of you (I recommend going to listen to "When the Night Comes" by Dan Auerbach for some post-story catharsis. It'll help).
> 
> When you're ready to revisit Emma, you can find her in the second book in this series, **Strategy.**
> 
> At any rate, thank you for giving this story a chance. Drop me a line if you enjoyed it, hated it, have any bones to pick with me, or otherwise have something to say.


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